Summary:  The members of the Winchester family learn to deal with the ever-increasing risks of their lifestyle.
A/N:  So I think this is the first of three parts, which focuses on Sam. There will be subsequent parts that show how Dean and John both deal with life-threatening injuries on the job. After seeing how Sam and Dean reacted in "Faith" to Dean's injury, it made me wonder how they first became introduced to the real perils of hunting. And so I wrote this. A thousand thanks and hugs to my wonderful beta, Cati. I can hardly remember writing without her meticulous and well-thought out responses. I never would have done this without you. You really do rock my face off:)
Disclaimer:  (wow, I actually remembered one this time) Trust me, I know that I don't own this stuff...

Part One: Never Follow Blindly

The dirt road was pitted with potholes from years of erosion and overgrown with vegetation. A dark thicket lined the shoulder, and the fullness of the fall leaves obscured much of the moon’s light.

John drove without emotion, his eyes fixed fully on the road as the car bumped slowly along. Occasionally, he glanced in the rearview mirror, watching his sons. Dean sat up straight, his face stoic as he stared at the passing trees. At 14, Dean had successfully passed through puberty, and was becoming more and more like a man every day. His voice had changed and his body had begun to fill out. His very stature exuded maturity and discipline.

Sammy was still the consummate ten-year-old. He bounced in his seat, legs swinging back and forth restlessly. He seemed to be a bundle of barely contained energy, his eyes trailing from the side window to the front seat to the sagging roof of the car and back again. Every so often, he would glance at his older brother, looking for an opportunity for interaction.

The car jarred, hitting a particularly vicious pothole. John turned his eyes back to the road, gauging just how much farther they had to go. He had made this drive before, but only during the day, and it seemed interminably longer in the stillness of night.

"Are we there yet?" Sammy’s voice broke the silence. He knew how much his father hated this question, but it seemed like they'd been driving forever. He wouldn't be surprised if they were in the next state by now.

"Soon," John replied shortly.

The answer did little to appease Sam’s restlessness. He turned his attention back to Dean. He paused, tentative in his next move. "Dean?"

Dean’s gaze turned tiredly to his brother. "Yeah?"

"We’re going to miss the show tonight."

"Which show?"

"The one with Superman."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You’re the only one who likes that one, Sammy."

"Uh-uh," Sam said contrarily. "You watch it too."

"We only have one TV."

"You said you thought Superman was the coolest."

"Sammy, you’re full of crap," Dean said with a sigh.

"Am not."

"Are too. Only babies like Superman."

"I’m not a baby," Sam protested.

With a grin, Dean knew he had found his brother’s hot button. "You like Superman."

Sam looked sulky. "Doesn’t mean I’m a baby."

Dean poked his brother. "Baby."

Sam poked back. "Am not."

Before either could continue, their father cut them off. "We’re here."

The car slowed as it pulled into a clearing. A large house loomed in the shadows. In the glare of headlights, the house looked dilapidated, the windows sagging and broken out, the siding chipped and warped. The large, wraparound front porch had fallen into severe disrepair. In all, its appearance made little impression on the Winchesters.

The boys were silent as John parked the car and got out. He opened the trunk as the boys fumbled out the backseat.

"Hey, Sammy, wouldn’t you love to have Jennifer Fisher here with you?" Dean asked, grinning. "Girls dig guys with guns, you know." Dean nodded knowingly.

Sam crinkled his nose. "Why would I want that?"

"Because Jennifer Fisher’s so pretty. Long blonde hair, right, Sammy? Blondes have way more fun."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I don’t even like Jennifer Fisher."

"But she likes you," Dean taunted. "She practically follows you home from school. I see her."

"She does not."

"Sammy’s got a girlfriend, Sammy’s got a girlfriend."

Sam moved to jump on his brother, but their father’s voice stopped them both.

"Okay, so let’s review here," he said and the boys fell into line in front of him. "We’re dealing with a spirit. The body's in the basement, and we'll have to burn the bones. But we also need to find a book. It should be in the library."

"How will we know which one it is?" Dean asked the obvious question.

His father shot him a look and continued his briefing. "The book should be filled with letters. The book is always a part of the stories related to attacks--most of the vitcims are found in the library--so I think that book is another source of the spirit's power. We need to destroy it, too."

"Sounds easy enough," Dean said while Sam rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"All you have to do is find the book and burn it when you do. We can’t be all together on this one. It’s going to be very aware of what we’re doing, so we’ve got split up and be quick. I’ll be in the basement with the bones."

"No problem," Dean said, nonchalantly. "I’ve got my handy Zippo ready for action."

"Don’t take any risks," John warned. "I want you to go straight upstairs, find the book, and then get out. Nothing more."

"We could come down and help you out," Dean offered.

"Nope. In and out for you two."

"You gonna give us the rock salt?" Sam asked.

"Hopefully you won’t need these," John said, handing a gun to each of the boys. "But have them ready in case she comes after you."

Dean checked to be sure his gun was loaded correctly, prompting Sam to do the same. "Nothing we haven’t done before."

"Remember to be aware--look for the signs--flickering lights, a drop in temperature-"

"We know the drill."

John looked ready to lecture more, but he stopped, gauging his sons. They both stood, guns in hand, ready and able. He knew they had both tackled things more difficult than this, but he also knew that mistakes were not an option.

"Watch out for each other, and, I promise, you’ll be just fine."

Dean grinned. "We always are."

Nodding, John concluded, "The library is on the second floor, west corner. Meet me back here when you’re done. And be careful."

Dean nodded back, secure and confident, and Sam offered him a wide smile. "You too, Daddy."

00000000000

Two steady beams darted up the stairway as the Winchester boys climbed up the old steps.

"I’ll bet Jennifer would love to see you like this," Dean teased quietly.

"Shut up, Dean," Sam hissed back, following Dean closely.

The beams danced wildly over the tearing wallpaper, catching odd reflections off the dusty photos on the wall.

"Jennifer and Sam, sitting in a tree-"

A sudden breeze came over them and their flashlights flickered, silencing and stilling them both. They stood frozen for a moment, guns ready, but the air was unmoving again and their lights stayed on.

"She’s around," Dean whispered.

Sam prodded his brother. "We’d better hurry."

They ascended the rest of the stairs quickly and soundlessly, then moved through the hallways with the stealth of seasoned hunters. As they neared the western end of the house, Dean pushed open the doors carefully, trying to find the library. At the end of the hall, the door finally opened to a room lined with shelves. With a slight nod, Dean motioned Sam inside.

The boys flashed their lights about the room, realizing suddenly that the task ahead of them was not as easy as they anticipated. The shelves covered the walls from floor to ceiling, each shelf filled to capacity with books.

"That’s a lot of books," Dean said.

Sam's eyes were wide in wonder. "I would love a room like this," Sam replied, a hint of awe coloring his voice.

"Yeah, well, no time for reading now. We’re looking for the book with the letters."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Sounds easy."

Dean grinned at him. "Nothing the Winchesters can’t handle."

The boys began in opposite directions, scanning the shelves carefully, looking for something distinctive.

Sam let his fingers trail along the shelves, leaving lines in the dust as he searched. Dean was across the room, obscured in the darkness.

"We should just light the whole thing on fire," Dean said.

Sam let the flashlight trail up and down the walls. "That’d be a waste."

"This is a waste," Dean countered. "No one could ever read all these books in a lifetime."

"I’d like to try."

"You’re a freak."

"Am not."

"Freak."

"Dean-"

"Hey, look, I think I got it!" Dean called abruptly.

Just as Sam turned to look, something stopped him. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he shivered violently. He gasped, spinning around as his flashlight blinked out. "Dean!" he yelled as something blurred passed him.

Startled, Sam raised his gun, tracking the rapidly appearing form as it crossed the room, heading straight for his brother. He watched his brother turn, but it was happening too fast. The spirit stood between Sam and his older brother, blocking Dean from Sam's vision. But Sam remember his father's warnings about ghosts--spirits were not solid targets, never fire when someone is directly behind one. Sam steadied his gun as best he could, high on the spirit as to avoid his brother, and fired.

The shot went wide and Sam watched as the spirit slammed Dean into the shelves. "Dean!" Sam screamed now.

The spirit seemed attracted to the noise, and turned back toward Sam. He could see her now, the wildness of her ghostly blond locks and the enraged look on her translucent face. He was shaking, eyes wide and terrified. His arm was numb and his hand trembled as he aimed straight at her this time. His finger twitched and the gun fired again, and he hit his target.

The spirit vanished with an angry hiss, but Sam knew it was only a quick fix. He tried to gather himself, but the spirit rematerialized too quickly. She sent him tumbling backwards. He struggled to maintain grip on his gun, his head spinning as he hit the ground. Dazed, Sam stared blankly as the spirit approached him again, and he found himself wishing for Dean, his father, anyone.

Feeling like a deer in the headlights, Sam curled into himself, covering his head, even though he knew it would do no good. As he prepared for the blow he feared would come, suddenly the walls shook violently and bright light filled the room, blinding its inhabitants. With a deafening shudder, the room returned to normal, the spirit gone in an angry flash.

Sam unclenched himself slowly, almost afraid to open his eyes. His breath came heavily, his body suddenly exhausted from the overload of activity. For a moment, he had believed he was going to die, that the spirit was going to overtake him and his brother both, and although the newfound serenity in the home seemed palpable, Sam hesitated to believe it.

But as he blinked, the room came into a dim focus. The temperature had warmed and the haze was gone. Sam let out a nervous laugh. "That was close," he said in relief.

He moved from his crouched position along the wall. Dean should have offered a cocky reply, Sam realized suddenly. His eyes were readjusting to the dark. "Dean?" he called, as he turned to where he had last seen his brother.

Dean was on his side, facing away from Sam, unmoving. The shelves were broken around him, their contents spilled over him.

Sam felt paralyzed. Gradually, he pulled himself to his feet, willing his legs to inch closer to his fallen brother. Injuries were not uncommon for the Winchesters, and at ten years, Sam had had more broken bones than most people did in a life time. Moreover, he had witness his brother’s bumps and cuts, and even knew a thing or two about initial treatment. It was a part of life. But he had never seen his brother lie so still before, and he was scared.

"Dean?" he repeated, hands suddenly clammy and stomach churning.

"Dean, you okay?" His own voice sounded small and terrified.

There was no response; nothing moved in the room. He knelt, carefully turning his brother to face him.

Dean rolled onto his back limply, his head falling toward Sam.

Startled, Sam recoiled, tripping over himself as he moved backwards.

The side of Dean’s face was covered with blood, slicking his brother’s features, making them look unnatural and garish in the dimness.

Sam was also no stranger to blood. But all the other times, Dean had been there, awake, making jokes, assuaging any anxiety he might have had.

Dean wasn’t joking now. Blood was smeared down his neck, dripping onto his t-shirt. He looked--he looked dead. Sam felt sick and shut his eyes tightly to block out the image in front of him.

When he opened his eyes, the scene was still the same, and Sam tried to remember what to do. But his mind was blank, caught up in the horror of seeing his brother so still and so bloody. He fumbled back toward his brother, shaking him now, and begging, "Wake up, Dean. Wake up!"

Tears were blinding him now and he felt himself losing control. He took gasping breaths, trying to rouse Dean.

Strong hands pulled him away. Sam struggled, too distraught to recognize his father’s presence.

"Sammy, you’ve got to calm down," John said, trying to contain the hysterical child. "Sammy, stop it, now!" The words sounded harsh, and John regretted it as he felt his youngest son’s panic. But he didn’t have time for soothing words or comfort. Dean needed attention, and that was all he could focus on.

The order worked. Sam’s frantic movements stilled, and he turned his tear-streaked face to his father, recognition finally dawning over him. "Daddy?"

"Yeah, Sammy. Now you need to calm down while I go check on Dean, okay?"

New tears spilled down Sam’s face. "Dean’s hurt."

"I know," John said, his voice a little more gentle. He tried to hide the fear that tickled the back of his own mind. "Now while I take care of Dean, I want you gather up our stuff and put it away, okay? We need to move fast. I want you at the car in five minutes."

Sam sniffled and wiped his nose. For a second, he looked ready to break in to hysterics again, but instead took a deep breath, trying to act the way Dean would. "Okay."

"Good," John said approvingly. He watched Sam collect the scattered guns, turn one last longing look over his shoulder and disappear out the door.

John let out a breath, and turned to his oldest son.

Dean was sprawled on his back. John ignored the amount of blood on his face, using his flashlight to find the source of the wound. He found the gash, just along the hairline. It was deep, but not too severe.

"Dean?" he called, patting his son’s cheek. "Dean, you need to wake up now."

His oldest was compliant almost to a fault. It didn’t take much more than a friendly suggestion for Dean to acquiesce to his father’s bidding.

But there was no response.

John shook Dean’s shoulder now, and let his voice get stern. "Dean."

Nothing.

John cursed under his breath. Dean likely had a concussion, probably one that warranted hospital care. John could handle most abrasions and sprains, but he didn’t mess around with unconsciousness and the risk of comas.

"Let’s get you out of here, son," John murmured as he gathered the teenager into his arms. He grunted, realizing just how much his children had grown, but did not falter as he swiftly made his way out of the house.

00000000000

The trees out the window seemed to fly past. The car bounded unevenly over the road, jerking as John avoided the worst of the potholes. He was still cautious as he maneuvered around the hazards, but speed was more of an issue than when they had come down the road before.

Sam kept glancing nervously over his shoulder. The tic made John anxious; he accelerated the car. He also decided that now was the time for some answers.

"What happened, Sammy?"

Sam stiffened in the seat next to him.

John spared a long look at his son. "Samuel."

The use of his full name made Sam flinch. "We were in the library, looking for the letters. Dean said he thought he found them when I felt a chill. She was going after Dean. I fired-" Sam’s voice broke off and he hung his head.

"Sam?" his father prompted.

"I missed. It went wide--to the left."

"You missed the shot?" John didn’t try to mask the shock and disappointment in his voice. His sons were trained for this. He expected more from them. If they couldn’t protect themselves and each other, it was a major problem.

Sam turned desperately to his father. "I didn’t mean to! She was moving so fast and it was so dark--I-I didn’t mean to!"

John felt himself grow angry and he clenched his teeth. "Is that when she got to Dean?"

Sam’s lower lip quivered anew. "I tried, Daddy. I tried, really, I did. I didn’t mean for this-I didn’t-"

Sammy’s excuses sounded pitiful, and John pounced on Sam’s display of weakness. "Sammy, how could you let that happen?"

"She came so quickly. We didn’t see her until she was on Dean--and I didn’t want to hit him--" Sam's voice broke off and a sob escaped his lips. "I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m so sorry. I did this. I did this to Dean."

The blame was too easily accepted and Sam’s self-deprecation made John take a deep breath and glare at the road ahead, trying to compose himself.

"Are you mad at me?" Sam asked tentatively from the passenger’s seat.

John could not tear his eyes from the road. Dean was easier to get mad at--his eldest responded so stoically to criticism. John had always opted for tough love, knowing he had to steel his sons for the life they were living.

But it was so much harder with Sam. Sam did not know how to hide his feelings. Although Sam had grown up with the hunting lifestyle, John had only let him participate actively over the last year. Sam’s skills progressed daily, and he had seen many things in his few years, but John knew that Sam was still inexperienced. Though he hated that Sam had missed the shot, he knew Sam was terrified enough as it was. The first exposure to real injury was not an easy one. Sam had not been negligent; this was not the time for anger. John got a grip on his emotions before he answered his son. "No, Sammy, I’m not mad."

"It’s my fault."

"No, it’s not your fault." The words echoed painfully inside John--feeling the blame circle closer to himself.

Sam glanced up. "I missed the shot."

John could yell at his sons for carelessness and for sloppy work. But how many shots had he missed in his hunting days? He knew hitting moving target in dim conditions wasn’t easy. "It happens, Sammy. It happens to all of us, okay? You and Dean did everything right."

Confusion settled into his young features. "But if we did everything right, then how did this happen?"

"It just happens, Sammy, I--"

"But you said everything would be okay if we followed your instructions. Daddy, you promised-" Sam’s voice was raw and filled with confusion.

"Samuel, I know," John said, glancing back at Dean. Emotions were a distraction--one he didn’t have the patience for. His momentary compassion fled. "We need to focus now--Dean needs the hospital. Our talk isn’t going to do him any good."

Sam opened his mouth, but saw his father’s distress in the darkness of the car. Instead he swallowed the words and turned his eyes stonily back to the road ahead.

00000000000

Despite all the signs that forbade it, John brought the car to a squealing halt outside the emergency room doors. John didn’t wait for Sam as he collected Dean and rushed toward the hospital doors.

Dazed, Sam followed after, trying to keep up with his father’s brisk pace.

Entering the ER doors, John’s presence was immediately noticed and Sam stood just behind him, watching as a flurry of activity erupted. There were people everywhere, talking loudly and quickly, using the doctor terminology Sam barely comprehended. Dean’s arms dangled at Sam’s eye level and Sam felt ill as his father placed Dean onto a gurney. He wanted to call out to Dean, to make him wake up, to hear him tease him, but as the gurney was pushed away, Sam caught sight of his brother’s blood-covered face, unmoving and slack.

Sam’s fear twisted in his heart, and he began to feel a steady anger growing within him. "Watch out for each other, and, I promise, you’ll be just fine." Sam had always trusted his father’s word as law, infallible and unquestionably true. But they had done everything right--they had been careful and quick, just like their father always told them. Bad things were only supposed to happen when they disobeyed, and they had followed orders.

Sam and Dean had both learned at young ages that there were swift and unforgiving punishments for disobedience.

So it shouldn’t have happened. Dean shouldn’t be on that gurney, he shouldn’t be bleeding, he shouldn’t be--

"It just happens, Sammy."

Sam swallowed hard and shook his head. His brother had disappeared and his father was being talked to by a nurse.

Standing in the middle of the waiting room, numbness crept through his body.

All he had ever wanted growing up was to be like Dean, to have his father’s approval. He envied the pride in his father’s eyes when he looked at Dean; he yearned for the confidence his brother had as he wielding weaponry. He had spent his entire life aspiring for those things, to become a Winchester man. He had listened to his father and trained and studied, and been promised that the three of them would always be okay if they stuck together and followed the plan.

But now, Dean was hurt, maybe dying. That wasn't part of any plan.

It couldn’t have happened. It shouldn’t have happened. Things didn’t just happen when everyone did their job. John had drilled that lesson into his sons, over and over. It was a warning against carelessness, a promise of security, and Sam had never doubted it. But now his brother was unmoving and Sam could not escape the conclusion forming in hs mind: his father had lied.

There had to be fault; there had to be blame. It had to be because he hadn’t shot straight. It had to be because their father hadn’t burned the bones quickly enough. There had to be a reason.

Sam’s eyes traveled distantly to his father, who was nodding intently, now talking to a doctor.

"I promise."

Sam could almost hear the voice, ringing in his ears. It had been a lie. Not just the lies Dean told about getting skipping school or the lies Sam himself told about where he went after school, but a real lie with consequences Sam could only begin to fathom. This revelation struck him, and he wondered how many other lies had slipped easily out of his father's mouth. Sam felt the foundation of his world begin to unravel. Suddenly all the reasons John had given them for hunting, for fighting evil, seemed insubstantial. Nothing could justify what had happened to Dean. All the what-if’s were unimportant--because none of them would have mattered if they hadn’t been there at all. If they had been at home, eating dinner, watching cartoons, it wouldn’t matter how accurate Sam’s aim was or how quick his father dug.

That realization covered him, weighing him down. He stared unblinkingly at his father, who was turning toward him.

"Let’s take a seat, Sammy," John said, placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

Sam pulled away, defiance shining in his eyes. His voice was barely a whisper. "No."

John looked surprised, then mildly annoyed. "Sammy, sit down."

The rebellion within Sam mounted. "No," he said again, louder this time.

John glanced around nervously, noticing the nurse at the front desk peeking at him over her paperwork. John forced a smile. "We’re not doing Dean any good this way, Sammy." John’s voice was thick and laden with intention. "Let’s sit down."

"No!" Sam’s voice was loud now, drawing a few curious glances from people nearby.

With a new grip on Sam’s arm, John squeezed, glaring at his son. "Samuel."

It did not have the desired effect of subduing Sam. Instead Sam shook him off. "I hate you!" Sam yelled. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"

John’s patience snapped. Keeping a firm hold on his son’s arm, he dragged him outside while the boy thrashed and swore. Once outside the hospital, John pulled his son off to the side, so as to obscure them from anyone passing by.

Still holding Sam’s arm, he shook the ten-year-old harshly. Sam looked ready to protest by John tersely cut him off. "You never--ever--cause a scene like that in public again! If you have a problem with something, you talk to me like a man, not throw a tantrum like a baby."

"I don’t have to listen to you," Sam spat back. "You’re a liar, and I hate you."

John felt his rage mounting. His sons had always been obedient. Usually a stern word made them compliant. Sam was seriously overstepping his bounds, and John was not in the mood to deal with it. "Watch yourself, young man," John warned.

"No," Sam said, struggling to break his father’s grasp. "Leave me alone. I don’t want to be near you!"

As Sam tried to break away, John increased his grip, yanking his son close to him. "Samuel, you need to stop this now," he seethed through clenched teeth. "Do you want someone to see this? You know what will happen if we get attention. Do you want to be taken away?"

"Maybe we should be taken away. You aren’t a good father. Fathers are supposed to protect their kids."

"I do everything I can to protect you-"

"Liar!" Sam yelled back, kicking his father’s shins.

John winced, stumbling slightly, but the ten-year-old still couldn’t break the vice grip.

"You told us we’d be okay. We did everything you told us to do--everything--Dean made sure of it, and look what happened! You lied to us! It’s your fault!"

John clamped his hand over his son’s mouth, trying to quiet him in desperation. He’d had enough trouble trying to explain away Dean’s injury without Sammy’s wild accusations. "That’s hunting, Sam," he explained slowly, trying to calm his wayward son. "You know it’s dangerous. That’s why you have to be careful. Sometimes even when you do everything right, accidents happen. Like the time you broke your arm. Or the time Dean broke his ankle."

Sam glared but stopped squirming. His father’s hand released his face. "I was the one who broke my ankle. Dean broke his wrist."

"You’re missing the point, Sammy. This was an accident. That’s what happens when you hunt."

"Then I hate hunting!" Sam concluded with a vehement shake of his head. "Why do we have to do it?"

John sighed. "You know why, Sammy."

Sam shook his head. "No. I don’t."

"We have to do it--after what happened to your mother, knowing what we know--we just have to, Sammy."

"No one else hunts."

"We’re not like other people."

"We can be."

John gave a sad smile. "It’s not that easy."

"Yes, it is," Sam insisted. "You’re just not trying. If you would just try, you could get a normal job like all the other dads. And then we could have a house and Dean and I could stay in one school and we’d have friends and play sports."

"Sammy…"

Sam shook his head, his eyes slowly filling with tears. "We could eat real dinners and be in school plays and Dean could--Dean would--" Sam’s voice broke and he bgan to cry. "Dean would be okay. Hunting killed Dean, Daddy--I hate it. I hate it."

John watched as his son sobbed. The purity of his son’s grief broke his heart. Slowly he released his grip and placed a hand on his son’s cheek. "Oh, Sammy. Is that what you think? That Dean’s dead?"

Sam turned wide, red eyes up at his father. "There was so much blood and he wasn’t moving-"

Shaking his head, John knelt to Sam’s level. "No, Sammy. Dean’s not dead. He’s just got a bad bump on the head. The doctors are fixing him all up. He’s going to be fine."

Sam’s face trembled and his chest rose and fell with hiccupping breaths. "He is?"

"Yes," John said with a small laugh.

"I don’t believe you," Sam said pulling away. "You’re lying again."

"Sammy," John said, almost surprised. He was used to his sons’ complete faith; he had never seen such doubt in either of their eyes before. "I wouldn’t lie to you."

Sam looked skeptical.

"Do you want to see him?"

Hesitantly, Sam gave a nod.

"Then let’s go," John replied.

00000000000

Sam slumped in the blue plastic chair, counting the ceiling tiles in the waiting room. His father had promised to let him see Dean, but he had yet to follow through. The ten-year-old’s faith in his father was already strained, and if he didn’t produce results--a smiling, joking older brother--that faith could shatter altogether.

He glanced at his father, who was talking to a doctor on the far side of the waiting room. They had been talking for awhile. Sam had wanted to listen in, but his father’s firm glare had made him reconsider. Instead, he resigned himself to waiting, which, he supposed, was the purpose of a waiting room.

He shifted in his seat. He wondered why the seats were so uncomfortable. His attention drifted back to the ceiling, and he realized he had lost count. Starting in the corner, he began again.

Sixteen tiles later, his father’s voice broke him from his mindless activity. "You ready?"

Sam jumped out the chair and looked hopefully at his father. "We can see him?"

"Yep," his father said. "He’s resting comfortably down the hall. Just a concussion."

Sam allowed himself a moment of relief. Dean had had a concussion before, and he had been okay. He followed his father dutifully down the winding corridors, his anticipation growing. Finally they stopped outside room 112.

John turned to Sam. "Dean may be asleep, but he’ll wake up soon. And I promise, Sammy, Dean will be okay."

Normally his father’s promise would have been enough, but this time Sam needed to see with his own eyes. He entered the room hastily, but immediately grew timid as he took in the sight of his brother in the bed. Dean was indeed still asleep, his head turned somewhat to the side, just like it had in the house.

Sam ground his teeth together, determined not to show his father weakness. He inched to a chair to one side of Dean’s bed while his father made his way to the other.

Perched on the edge, Sam examined his brother. The blood had been cleaned off his face and the blood stained t-shirt had been removed. His brother wore a generic hospital gown, and a large bandage was wrapped around Dean’s head, masking the wound Sam knew was there.

A monitor beeped nearby, assuring Sam that his brother still had a heartbeat. He would not believe his father, though, until Dean awoke and told him himself; even then, Sam wasn’t sure he would ever trust John again.

Dean stirred with the new presence in the room. Sam wanted to move closer, but found himself hanging back, almost afraid to move.

John leaned forward, putting himself in Dean’s line of vision. "Dean?"

Dean grimaced and opened his eyes. "Dad?"

John grinned. "Got a nice bump on the head there."

Dean shifted. "Yeah, I know. It’s not bad though," Dean concluded with some confidence; he had had worse injuries in the past. "CT went well."

"Yeah, your doc says you’ll be fine. They want to keep you here, at least overnight."

"Man, can’t we check out? Sign the AMA?"

"Nope," John said with a rueful shake of his head at his son’s frustration. "Looks too suspicious. I think we’ve avoided social workers, and I don’t want to raise any flags."

Rolling his eyes, Dean sighed. "Yeah, yeah."

"You hungry? I think there’s a candy machine at the end of the hall," John offered.

Dean perked up. Such indulgences were common, as their meager budget could rarely afford name brand chocolate. "M&Ms?"

"You got it," John said. He rose to leave. "Anything for you, Sammy?"

Sam shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. John hesitated, wishing he knew how to read his youngest son. But he did not press the matter. Silence followed in their father’s departure.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked finally.

"Yeah, of course," Sam replied. "You’re the one she got."

Dean shrugged. "Eh, lucky on her part."

Sam was not comforted by his brother’s macho exterior. He bit his lip while Dean searched for the TV remote.

"You really okay, Dean?"

Dean opened and closed the drawer on the bedside table. "Me? 'Course I am, Sammy."

"But there was so much blood-"

"Head wounds. You know they bleed."

"But you weren’t moving."

Dean stopped his search and finally looked at his brother. Sammy seemed to be shrinking into the chair, trying to disappear. His voice gentler now, he said, "I’m okay, Sammy."

Sam gave shook his head slightly. "I should have tried harder," Sam said softly.

"Sammy, this wasn’t your fault."

Sam looked unconvinced. "If I had had better aim-"

"That thing blindsided us, little brother. Nothing we could have done about it."

"Why not?"

Dean shrugged. "That’s how it happens, I guess. Hunting isn’t predictable."

"Then why do we do it?"

Dean sighed and looked at the ceiling. "It’s what we do," he said.

"I don’t want to hunt anymore."

Looking back at his brother, Dean replied, "What are you talking about?"

"I don’t want to hunt. I hate it."

"How could you hate it? You know you like playing with the big guns."

Sam couldn’t take his eyes off the bandage around Dean’s head. He kept remembering Dean’s slackened features in the dim light. "I don’t want anything to happen to you."

Dean studied his brother, taken aback. "Nothing’s going to happen to me."

"But something already happened to you," Sam countered.

"A scratch. No big deal."

"Yes, it is."

Dean cocked his head curiously. Sammy never disagreed with him, not on the important things; whatever Dean said, Sam followed without question. Uncertain of how to gauge his brother’s newfound stubbornness, Dean tried a different approach. "This kind of thing," he said, pointing at the head wound, "makes us stronger. It makes us better. You better believe that--next time no spirit will get the upper hand on us. Together, Sammy, we can be unstoppable. But you can’t just walk away. It takes time and work."

Sam looked unconvinced.

"Trust me, Sammy," Dean said smoothly, leaning back in the bed. "Unstoppable."

The fear in Sam’s stomach abated somewhat, eased by the confidence of his brother. Indeed, Dean was still Dean, and he looked no worse for wear than all the other scrapes they’d been through. More than that, Sam wanted to believe his brother, he wanted to trust him. He needed to trust him. John might have lied, but Dean never had. And Sam clung to that.

Sam let a small smile play across his face as he tried to bury the fear. "Just like Superman?"

"Much better than Superman," Dean replied, playing into his brother’s growing faith. "With no kryptonite in sight."

Part Two: Never Surrender

Dean adjusted the rabbit ears on the TV, smacking it once for good measure, before he settled back on the couch, mesmerized by the cop drama playing behind the fuzzy lines.

"Can you keep that down?" Sam asked, nodding to the TV, which was spewing more buzzing than actual sound.

Dean leaned back, putting one hand behind his head. "Why? It’s not like you’re doing anything important."

Seated at the table in the adjoining room, Sam didn’t look up. "I’ve got to get this done."

"It’s just homework."

"Yeah, for US Lit. Ms. Treadle’s gives the most awful quizzes."

"US Lit? Just BS it."

Sam sighed and glared at his brother. "You don’t understand."

"Sure I do. Get your C and move on."

Sam shook his head and kept reading.

"What’re you reading?"

"Does it matter?"

"Just curious."

"Right."

The picture on the TV skewed again, this time until it was unrecognizable. Dean made a face and waited a moment before sitting up to readjust the ears. "You could get those one things…uhh...Cliff’s Notes?"

"She’d be able to tell."

"Nah," Dean said, sitting back as the picture reappeared. "They never know."

"She does."

"You actually scared of a English teacher, Sammy?"

Sam sighed, staring at the wall, thinking. "She’s evil," Sam said.

Dean laughed. "All teachers are evil."

Sam shook his head, looking very serious. "No, I mean, she’s actually evil."

Dean glanced at his brother. "I was convinced that my history teacher was evil. I mean, she always seemed to know when I was about to throw things at Diana Curry. That girl had the sweetest smile--she just begged to be flirted with." Dean smiled at the memory. "I swear that woman tried to make it so I’d never get a date."

"Dean, you’re not listening to me."

"Sammy--"

"No, I mean, I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. It’s not just her strict policies or her bizarre attention to detail--there’s something else about her, Dean."

"You’re just upset because you’ve finally met a teacher you haven’t charmed."

"Her car is always the last one to leave and the first one there. The way she carries herself--it’s not natural. It’s like she doesn’t bend or something. Her speech is stunted. She doesn’t use contractions--always ‘I am’ and ‘cannot.’"

"She’s an English teacher. That’s what she does."

"But she wasn’t always like that. It’s like she was one teacher before winter break and the minute we got back, it was like she was possessed or something."

Dean shrugged. "New Year’s Resolution."

"Sometimes I think I see something in her eyes," Sam admitted finally.

Dean straightened, studying his brother. "Contacts?"

Sam met Dean’s gaze. "She wears glasses."

Scoffing, Dean said, "You’re grasping at straws."

"You know I wouldn’t say anything unless I thought it was true."

Dean pondered that, loathe to acknowledge Sam was right. His kid brother had never been one to make up stories or automatically assume supernatural causes for anything out of the ordinary. "Are you sure?"

"She flinches when you say Cristo."

The certainty in his brother’s voice was enough to convince him. "So, what do you want to do?"

"Go check it out. Like I said, she’s always there, at school. I’m guessing that’s where she communes with whatever dark force she’s working for."

"At school?"

"Think about it. It’s secluded, secure, she has access to a lot of people. It’s the perfect location."

"We should do some more research."

Sam tried not to look skeptical. That was usually his line, not Dean’s. But he wanted his brother on his side, so he let it go. "I just want to check it out."

"Tonight?"

"Why not?"

"Dad’s not home."

"That’s the good part."

"Sam-"

"Look, I just want to check it out. I don’t think I can sit through another one of her lectures wondering. Come with me."

"Okay, okay. I’ll go with you. But we need to tell Dad."

Sam shook his head. "No. I don’t want to bring him into this until we’re sure."

"Sam…," Dean’s voice carried a warning.

"Dean, you said it yourself, all teachers are evil. I’m probably overreacting. The last thing I need is for Dad to think I’m exaggerating."

Dean hesitated, and Sam sensed his opening. "Please?"

"We’re taking the book of exorcisms and the holy water."

"Of course."

"And if we get into anything, we’re leaving as fast as we can say Cristo."

"Deal."

0000000

Dean parked the car in the empty parking lot, grimacing as he looked up at the darkened building. "I don’t miss this place."

Sam rolled his eyes and grabbed his bag. "You never went here."

"You been in one high school, you’ve been in them all."

"I can’t believe they even gave you a diploma," Sam said under his breath and he opened his door. "Let’s do this."

Dean gave one last foreboding look before he followed his brother out the car and up the steps. The school was an old, three-story building with a sprawling front lawn punctuated by stately pinoaks.

"I can’t believe we’re breaking into school," Dean muttered as he jimmied the lock. "Most kids try to break out."

Sam ignored him, glancing around impatiently. "Just hurry up."

"Yeah, yeah."

The lock finally gave way, and Dean grinned as he pulled it open. "School’s in session."

Sam just glared at him and rushed past him.

Dean followed Sam through the corridors, grinning as he looked around. "I miss lockers--I used to stick freshmen in them."

"People actually do that?"

"Why not?"

"You must have lived in a bad rerun of Saved by the Bell," Sam muttered.

They quieted as Sam slowed, motioning to Dean they were close. Creeping now, Sam stopped outside classroom 33.

Sam nodded at the door, which was closed. The lights were off.

"Looks like no one’s home," Dean said, keeping his voice soft despite the apparently abandoned hallways.

"Her car’s in the parking lot."

"You know her car?"

"I’ve been doing some research on her."

Dean made a face. "Freak."

"Just open the door."

Dean tested the door; the handle gave easily. The brothers exchanged a curious glance.

Noiselessly, Dean inched the door open.

The room was dark and still. Nothing moved. Sam crept inside, poking around in the blackness.

Dean flicked the switch and light filled the room. "No one here, little brother."

Sam wasn’t giving up so easily. "Doesn’t mean she’s not in the building."

"Maybe she left her car here and hitched a ride with someone else."

"Dean, there’s something about her that just doesn’t add up."

"What, she didn’t give you an A+ on your last essay?"

"Come on. Be serious."

"I am being serious. Besides, anyone who’d want to be a teacher…well, they can’t be all right in the head."

"She knows Latin."

"Teachers are old--they used to make people learn Latin."

"She’s not that old," Sam replied. "And she knows it really well."

"How do you even know that?"

"I was talking about the etymology of words--many of which are Latin, and then--"

Dean shook his head, holding up his hand. "Stop, Sammy. Please. I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I don’t even want to know. The point is, where is she, Boy Wonder?"

The question made Sam pause. "It’s a big school. There are other places where she could hide."

"Sam." Dean was exasperated.

"Dean." Sam was resolute.

"There’s no one here. I know it’s hard to believe, but some people are just weird. Like you. What kind of kid is actually so convinced that their teacher’s possessed that they go seek her out after school hours?"

"You came with me."

"Only to bear witness to your freakishness."

Sam sighed, defeated. "Fine. Let’s just go."

"Thank you," Dean said.

Exiting the room, Sam turned off the lights and Dean shut the door.

"You know, Sammy. We could break into the computer system and really create some chaos."

It was Sam’s turn to shake his head. "Let’s just go home."

"You don’t know how to have fun."

Sam ignored him and headed back down the hallway.

"Ooh, or we could go steal all the chalk in the building," Dean said, his voice animated. "Do you know how funny it would be to see all those teachers desperately searching for chalk?"

Ignoring his brother, Sam kept walking.

"Oh, come on, Sammy, that’d be pretty funny."

"Grow up."

"Loosen up. You’re the oldest 15-year-old I’ve ever met. I swear, Sammy."

Sam smiled despite himself, but kept his eyes ahead.

Dean prattled on, but Sam felt a sudden tickle, like a faint wind, a minute whisper passing through him.

"Wait." Sam held out his hand, stopping his brother. "Do you hear that?" Sam asked.

"Cockroaches in the walls?"

"No. Listen."

They stood in silence a moment more and Dean heard it too--a distant definitive repetition of sounds. They could barely make it out from where they were, but it was unmistakable.

"Could be a radio," Dean suggested.

"No one’s here," Sam said, moving slowly down the hallway.

Dean rolled his eyes, but followed Sam. Turning a corner, the sound became louder. Someone was chanting. Pushing onward, they saw a light spilling from a doorway. They slowed as they approached, creeping carefully to keep their tennis shoes from squeaking on the linoleum.

The closer they came, the clearer the noise became. The source of the disturbance was a janitor’s closet. As they reached it, they could make meaningful Latin phrases muttered in cadence. Sam started to peek in when Dean pulled him back, motioning him away.

They exchanged several brief suggestive glances before Dean finally yanked Sam back down the hall. "We’re calling Dad," he hissed.

"We’re not even sure it’s her," Sam whispered back.

"Does it matter? Something’s in there spewing enough Latin phrases to contaminate every young mind that comes through here."

Their whispers were cut off when the hallway suddenly filled with light. They looked back, as they came face-to-face with the very person they’d been looking for.

"Sam, you’re here awfully late," Ms. Treadle said with a smile. The saccharine timbre of her voice made Sam shudder.

"Yeah, well, Sammy just forgot his English textbook. Kids these days," Dean said, standing tense and ready for action. "Cristo."

The word sent a terrible tremble through the teacher’s body. When she stilled, her eyes darkened menacingly. "You should really be less forgetful," she growled, advancing on the boys.

Dean lunged at her, tackling her as best he could. "Get the book, Sam. We’ve got to get it out of her."

Sam stared, shocked by the scene unfolding before him. He had been pretty certain in his assumption that his English teacher was possessed, but seeing her so changed was unsettling.

She was a slight woman, but the demon empowered her. Without warning, she punched Dean in the face, sending him sprawling. He hit the ground swearing. "Sammy!"

Spurred into action, Sam began searching frantically through his backpack, muttering curses that he had not cleaned his books out before he came.

Dean grappled with the demon-possessed teacher. Her well-placed kicks were especially painfully with her spiked heals that left angry welts under his clothes. He dodged a punch and caught her off guard, sending her to the ground and pouncing on top of her.

Straddling her, Dean held her wrists, the demon within thrashing and hissing. "Anytime, Sammy."

Sam gave one last disgusted glance before finding the his place and speak. The exorcism rite spurred the demon to desperation. The woman bucked unexpectedly, tossing Dean about, making it difficult for him to secure his grip.

Dean’s momentary weakness was the only opening the demon needed. Her eyes flashed darkly and Dean was hurled aside. Sam’s speech stumbled as he tried to keep an eye on how the situation was playing out. His words were cut off when the demon flew at him--hard--sending Sam and the book sprawling to the ground.

Dean gathered his senses in time to see the teacher continue her advance on Sam. His brother had landed forcefully against the row of lockers and with dazed coordination was reaching for the closest defense he saw--the holy water in his backpack. He wasn’t fast enough. She flung the backpack out of reach, its contents spilling and scattering them across the hallway. Then she grasped Sam, pulling him roughly from the ground, her hand around his neck. Lifting him with inhuman strength, she slammed him into the beat up lockers.

"You cannot stop me, mortal," she seethed, her hand tightening around Sam’s throat.

Sam rapidly tried to recall every escape move he had ever been taught, but could come up with nothing more than to claw at the hands that encircled his throat. Her vice grip could not be broken. He kicked, twisted, batted, all to no avail.

Dean’s head cleared but he still found it difficult to move. He watched, stunned, as Sam’s mouth gaped for air, only to be denied. Panic gripped his kid brother in a way Dean had never witnessed before.

His first instinct was to go after her, break her grip on Sam. But he knew his strength would be useless. The holy water wouldn’t be enough to stop her. It was only a quick fix. He had to finish the exorcism.

But where was the book? Dean began to search frantically, all too aware of Sam’s increasing terror.

Then he spied it--over beside a trash can. He scrambled toward it and picked it up, flipping frenetically through the pages for the right one. Dean cursed as his fast-paced thumbing yielded no results. He forced himself to go back through it. Keep it cool, he reminded himself. Don’t lose focus. He finally found the passage, and Dean did not hesitate to start reading, sparing only a quick glance at the demon who held his brother.

Sam’s fight was lessening; his fingers were numb and his body felt heavy and warm. The demon shook him, a sneer on her face, and his hands fell away, dangling at his sides. He tried to move them, to bring them back up to fight, but sensation had faded into a dull weight over which he had no control. His eyelids drooped, the demon’s satisfied smile becoming fuzzy. The burning in his lungs became muted and the edges of his world grayed, darkening steadily until all he could see was the gleam in the demon’s eyes. Distantly he thought he heard a voice, and words--familiar words--but the world was too hard to comprehend. The darkness seemed soft and he let himself effuse into it.

Dean quickened his pace as Sam fell still. His words jumbled as he read the Latin clumsily.

The demon tossed Sam to the side where he lay in a boneless heap. Having disposed of one threat, she turned in fury upon the other.

Dean shouted the last words, giving a satisfied smirk as the exorcism took effect. The woman shuddered as the demon was expelled violently. She fell to the ground at Dean’s feet and all was still.

Too still. Sam still lay on the floor, crumpled exactly how he’d been dropped.

With new apprehension, Dean rushed to Sam’s side. Rolling his brother over, his breath caught in his throat. His fingers tingled and his ears buzzed as he tried desperately to deny the truth that approached him.

Sam’s face was ashen, his lips a deathly shade of blue. "Sammy?"

Dean’s hand shook as it reached out, feeling at Sam’s neck. His own heart pulsed hard in his ears, reverberating in his head, but he felt nothing in Sam--not a twitch, not a tremble.

"No…," he breathed. Swallowing hard, he leaned over Sam, straining to hear a faint whisper of a breath, willing a soft tickle to grace his cheek, striving to see some kind of movement in his brother’s chest.

Nothing.

Denial melted slowly as the terrible truth settled over him: Sam was dead.

Dean had seen injury; Dean had even seen death. He had stopped keeping track of the number of stitches he had had sewn into his own body and seen etched into his brother’s. He tried to forget how many trips he’d sat by Sam on the way to the hospital, pressing a bandage down as he cracked jokes, hoping just to keep his brother conscious.

Dean was no stranger to peril, nor did he treat it cavalierly. He was always concerned, especially when it was his younger brother. But even when things seemed to be spiraling wildly away from the plans that had been laid, he’d always retained a semblance of control, a sense that everything would be okay in the end.

He had seen innocent people die in the crossfire. His mother had been the first, her death the one that had set them all in motion. But death had never dared strike the Winchesters--not again, they made sure of that. They stayed sharp, they watched each other’s backs, and they held each other back from the brink.

Until now.

Dean felt detached as his hands mechanically tilted Sam’s head. He closed his eyes as he pinched his brother’s nose, then blew steadily into his brother’s mouth.

Sam’s lips were cold to the touch, and Dean watched in morbid fascination as Sam’s chest rose and fell with his breath.

It was much harder to start compressions. But the blue hue of Sam’s face overrode Dean’s numbness. His arms were rigid as his hand pushed down on Sam’s chest. He could feel Sam’s ribcage move with the pressure. Sam’s whole body responded to Dean’s ministrations.

His stomach turned, but he swallowed the bile to blow two more breaths into his brother. Sam’s chest rose and fell on command, stilling again as Dean repositioned himself for another round of compressions.

Dean heard a crack, felt something shift unnaturally in the body below him, but couldn’t bring himself to stop. He was on automatic pilot now, simply doing what needed to be done.

He breathed twice more for Sam, barely able to gather enough air to deliver them.

It felt surreal. He was living for both of them, and that fight was draining him. Sam had fallen over the edge and Dean was holding on tight, clinging to life for both of them. This was the first fight he ever thought he might lose.

Two more breaths, fifteen compressions.

Fear pulsed through his veins like ice, and the reality of the situation almost overpowered him. But Dean had been taught to never give in to fear, to instead use it as strength. Emotions slid off him, harmlessly and without penetration.

Breathing. Compressing.

Dean had also learned never to cry. Tears were weakness, a surrender to fear. Bravery and courage were no longer emotions he chose. They were the only emotions he let in. He had steeled himself from a young age to not let fear in, and nothing had broken that armor yet.

Breathing. Compressing.

But at this moment Dean Winchester leanred two new emotions: panic and defeat.

Hunting was about control. It was about power. It was about believing he had the ability to change things no matter how difficult the circumstances. He had never relinquished that control before; he not surrendered it in any situation. It was taken from him now. The loss of power and control drained him, stripped him.

Breathing. Compressing.

Control seemed like a vain illusion now. How many years had he walked blindly on the edge, too proud to see how precarious the position was?

His mind pleaded, begged something, anything to change this outcome. This wasn’t about winning or losing, it was about surrender. And Dean wasn't about to do it.

Breathing.

Nothing else existed--just Dean and his brother, Dean and Sam, fighting against fate. One, two, three…

He forgot about his father and how angry he’d be that Dean had let this happen. …four, five, six…

He forgot about his mother and how little he really knew about who she was. …seven, eight, nine…

He forgot about Sam’s rebellion, his attempts to break away and how much that hurt. …ten, eleven, twelve…

He forgot about his pride, that overwhelming need to be right, to be perfect. …thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…

He even forgot about fate, or whatever it was that had them here. Breathe.

Sam’s body jerked and Dean stopped and stared as his brother sucked in a noisy breath.

Dean’s eyes were wide, disbelieving. Sam was moving now, struggling for air and flailing.

His instincts kicked in, and he moved to support Sam, holding his brother awkwardly in his arms, lifting him from the ground.

Sam melted in his grasp, his uncoordinated movements stilling as he gasped frantically for much needed oxygen. Dean’s own breathing was shaky as he cradled his brother. "You’re okay," he mumbled. "You’re okay."

He received no response from his brother, whose breaths still came deep and rasping. As awful as they sounded, Dean cherished those breaths, was awed and stunned by them. He’d believed for a moment that he would never hear them again.

Then it all came crashing down on him with blinding reality. Sam choking, falling, not breathing--the things of his worst nightmare, the things so bad that he didn’t even know how to dream it. The juxtaposition startled him from his terrified stupor: Sam had been dead mere seconds before and now, by some miracle he could not place, his brother was alive.

Trembling, gasping, cold--but alive.

Dean’s mind raced, suddenly aware of all the complications that could arise. "You’re okay," he repeated again, trying to reassure himself as much as his brother.

He would never remember getting up or calling 911. He would never remember holding Sam’s hand, whispering a meaningless mantra of reassurances as he watched waited for help to come.

He would only remember the clatter of the paramedics’ footsteps against the linoleum and the sound of their voices as they asked question after question. He never knew what he said, but he remembered sitting in the ambulance, staring in wonder at each breath his brother drew.

0000000

"What happened?"

Dean cringed. He had been dreading those words. He had spent the last half-hour alone in the waiting room, fathoming possible responses, playing out possible scenarios for this moment. He had known that before his father said anything else, he would demand answers. Dean took a shaky breath and attempted to brace himself. "It was a demon."

"A demon?" John exclaimed, his voice hitching loudly. Glancing around nervously, he quieted and sat down next to his son. His voice was low and serious. "What were you thinking?"

"We didn’t mean to get into it with her."

"Then what were you doing?"

Dean had thought of all his reasons, and he knew how pathetic they would sound when said aloud. "Sam thought one of his teachers was possessed."

"And why would he think that?"

"Does it matter? She was."

"So you went after her? Alone?" John was incredulous.

"I didn’t think it was true. We were just going to check it about."

John stifled an expletive. "Dean, you know better than this."

Dean couldn’t protest, because he knew his father was right. So he sat silent and let his father abase him.

"You took your brother with you to face a demon? Why would you put him at risk like that?"

Dean almost offered an apology, but his voice would not work.

"I trusted you, Dean, to take care of your brother. Every time I think you’ve grown up you go off and do something stupid like this. Do I have to be around to always hold your hand?"

The apology finally formed on Dean’s lips. "I’m sorry." He hated how weak it sounded.

"Sorry?" his father snorted. "Sorry? What happened back there?"

"She--I don’t know--took us by surprise. We were about to leave but she was on us. I tried to distract her, and Sammy was reading the exorcism." The events played back in horrific slow motion. "But, then…somehow I was down and she had Sammy--she had Sammy by the throat, and she was--she was choking him. I finished the exorcism." His voice sounded mechanical, lifeless. "I was too late. I did what I could, but--I was too late."

The confession hung and not even John Winchester could jump on the vulnerability expressed.

Dean clenched his jaw tightly, staring straight ahead. "I’m sorry," he said again. The words were forced, desperate.

There was a pause. "Couldn’t you have taken him to a different hospital?"

Dean turned in surprise, and finally looked at his father. His father looked disheveled and tired. Dean stared at him with wide eyes. "He wasn’t breathing, Dad," he said. "I didn’t know what else to do."

The admission caught his father off guard. There was a pause, filled with the awful truth they both knew but didn’t want to speak. "He wasn’t breathing?"

His throat too tight to speak anymore, Dean just shook his head.

His father didn’t--couldn’t--acknowledge the severity of it. "It’s just-" he began. "It’s just-" Accusations seemed easier to deal with. "You know how careful we have to be. The doctors know us here after Sam came here twice last month--once for the concussion and the other for the stitches. The last thing we need is social services coming around."

Dean’s disbelief was evident. He would take the blame for many things, but getting Sam treatment wasn’t one of them. "Sam was dead," he said with unexpected force. "He was blue and cold and dead." Dean let the image linger, taking hold in both their minds. "I just--I never--I mean--dead."

The tears he had been holding back for hours now, it seemed, flowed down his face. Slowly his head fell into his hands, where he sat in utter despair. He had lost everything--truly lost it--and he didn’t know by whose grace he had it back. But for the first time, he saw how thin a string his life dangled by and just how deep the crevice below him was. He shuddered to think how close they all were to being cut off.

He almost flinched when he felt rough hands wrap around him. But he didn’t pull away, and slowly realized the embrace that held him. "I’m sorry, Dean," his father said, rubbing slow circles on his back. "I’m sorry."

The touch was so foreign, so unexpected, but so welcome. He accepted it because he needed it, he needed the contact to assure himself that he was not asleep, that he was alive. And he felt that, somehow, his father needed the same assurance. They would never talk about it later, but in that moment, it was enough.

0000000

"Are you here for, uh, Sam Connelly?"

Both Dean and his father scrambled to their feet. "Yes, I’m his father," John said, usurping Dean’s position of control.

"Sorry to keep you waiting. Sam should be fine," the doctor said, his smile confident. "He’s awake and alert and all his motor functions are intact. He’s a lucky kid--the bruising on his neck is quite severe. His throat will be sore and his voice will probably be hoarse for a few days. He needs to take it easy, obviously. He does have a broken rib, but it’s not serious. We’ll keep him overnight for observation, but I expect we’ll release him tomorrow."

The prognosis was so optimistic that Dean hesitated to believe it. How could death overtake them and vanish so quickly, so soundlessly?

"It is a little vague just how long his heart wasn’t beating, but we’re optimistic there will be no long term consequences. I hear you’re the big brother who saved his life."

Dean found himself speechless.

"Hero, too," the doctor said. "Saved that teacher as well."

John glanced at his son. "Dean’s strong like that."

"Well, if not for you, your brother might not have been so lucky."

Dean felt paralyzed; the world seemed distant and fuzzy, like the reception on their TV.

"Can we see him?" John asked.

"Yes. We’ve admitted him. I’ll have a nurse take you to his room."

"Thank you, doctor," John said, with an appreciative nod.

Dean watched as the doctor motioned to a nearby nurse. "Nurse Stark will show you to his room."

The nurse was young and pretty and Dean probably would have made a pass at her under normal circumstances. At this moment, though, nothing could have been further from his mind. Instead, he stared mutely as she smiled and led them down the hall. His father followed her anxiously, clearly needing to see his son before he could relax.

They stopped outside a room, and she turned to them, her blonde ponytail swinging. "He’s sleeping now. We gave him a light sedative--he seemed a little agitated from the trauma--mostly psychological. We’ll have a psychiatrist come speak to him tomorrow. But right now, he needs his rest."

"Thank you," John said.

Dean noted how sincere his father sounded.

The nurse smiled and walked away, until her pink scrubs were lost down the corridor. Dean stared after her, too stupefied to fully understand what he was doing. His father pulled at him arm, and Dean followed him into the room.

The lights were dim and Dean couldn’t bring himself to move from behind his father. John, however, strode purposefully to Sam’s bed. Then Dean was exposed to the sight of his little brother, whom he hadn’t seen since the ambulance had brought them there.

Truthfully, he had expected worse. After seeing Sam so lifeless, the amount of color in Sam’s complexion surprised him. Sam’s chest clearly rose and fell--Dean watched for it--and though his features were unmoving, they looked peaceful. There were fewer machines than Dean had expected, as well. Sam was receiving oxygen nasally and had one IV stringing from his left hand. Ugly bruises adorned his throat. The markings were the only indication of any trauma whatsoever; otherwise Sam appeared to be merely sleeping.

Dean moved to the other side of the bed wordlessly, standing next to the heart monitor, which suddenly sounded loud. He glanced at it, noting how steadily Sam’s heart seemed to be beating. It was a sound Dean would never again take for granted.

Across the bed, John was still standing over his son, taking in his state as well. With a small smile, he placed a fatherly hand on Sam’s brow.

The action was so tender. His father had not shown such compassion to Sam since he was a child. Dean half expected his brother to flinch, to pull away. Sam had been doing that a lot lately.

John took a deep breath. "It’s going to be okay now," he said softly. He looked up at Dean. "It’s going to be okay. We just have to try harder. Be safer."

"I know," Dean whispered back.

Emotion flickered through his fathers eyes--pain, relief, fear, disappointment. At first Dean thought it was directed at him, but his father looked away ashamedly. He cleared his throat loudly, taking another shuddering breath. "We can’t let this happen again," he said.

An instant passed and Dean could not take his eyes off his father. He didn’t know what he was waiting for--forgiveness or condemnation.

He received neither.

John wiped his nose. "I need to go check on the insurance," he said quickly, leaving the room without looking at his sons.

Dean watched him go and felt himself exhale. After no movement came back to the doorway, he sank into the chair by Sam’s bedside. He said nothing, barely moved, perched on the edge of the chair, mesmerized by Sam’s steady breathing. Dean didn’t know what else to do. He was usually a man of action, but the events of the evening had left him confused, unsure--terrified.

The room was quiet. Beyond the beeps of the heart monitor, Dean distantly discerned the ticking of a wall clock, counting off the seconds.

Sam shifted and slowly opened his eyelids, recognition coming slowly. "Hey, Dean," Sam said, his voice soft and his syllables slurred.

"Hey," Dean said, leaning close to Sam. "How’re you doing?"

"Tired," Sam said. "Throat hurts."

"Yeah, it’s going to be like that for awhile. Do you remember what happened?"

"Demon?"

Dean grinned. "Yeah, she tried to kill you."

Sam felt his throat lightly. "Strangled?"

"Yeah. Who knew such a small woman could do so much."

Sam’s hand fell back to his side. He looked concerned. "Gone?"

"Gone. Back to hell where it belongs."

"Ms. Treadle?"

"She’ll be drilling you on American literature again in no time. She’s better off than you. Cops think some psycho attacked you both. Luckily, I managed to scare them away."

Sam nodded, letting his eyes close for a long moment. He swallowed, grimacing as he did. "You okay?"

"Me? I’m not the one who was strangled by my English teacher," he joked lightly. His smile fell as he relived it. "It was close, though, Sammy."

There was a pause. "They said I died."

Dean looked away, afraid of the tears that might come. "Yeah, well, you did quite a Lazarus impression back there . . ."

"Couldn’t have done it without you."

"Yeah, well, we’re quite a team." Dean paused, looking at his hands. "Don’t try it again, though. Okay?"

Sam nodded lightly, his eyes blinking sluggishly.

"Look, you get some sleep. You shouldn’t even be awake as it is. The nurse will chase me out if she thinks I’m keeping you up."

Sam mumbled, his eyes closing.

"What’s that, Sammy?"

Sam settled, turning his head back toward Dean without opening his eyes. His voice was barely a whisper, and his words were jumbled. But to Dean, they were crystal clear. "I love you."

Normally he would have groaned, made a quick joke, but Sam vulnerability took him off guard. After all, the Sam he had known recently was withdrawn and argumentative, less and less part of the family business - or even part of the family at all, it seemed at times.

Seeing Sam slip into sleep, Dean reached a hand out and smoothed his brother’s hair. He missed Sammy, the little brother who told him everything and strove to emulate his every move. As much as he ran from emotions and mocked his brother’s, this was a role he was comfortable with, that he needed--to be the protector.

It would be easy to believe he had saved Sam, that his determination and ability had kept Sam from the brink yet again. That was certainly what his father and Sam expected, and it would be the front he put up. But the doubt and fear could not be so easily extinguished. They festered within him, threatening to break down all the walls he had erected and foundation he had spent a lifetime solidifying.

Obedience and protection--the two things that gave structure to his chaotic world.

Dad and Sam--the two people who gave meaning to his void-filled life.

It had never occurred to him that these things may not coexist peaceably, that these pursuits may stand in opposition to one another.

Dean didn’t know how to disobey. His unfaltering obedience had started the night his father thrust Sam into his arms and told him to run and not look back. His entire existence could be summed up that way: following orders, protecting Sam, no looking back. Never looking back.

Not even when his baby brother was lying cold and dead on generic linoleum tile. Not even when he had to revive the only thing that made his own life worth living.

Dean tried to figure out how the pursuit could justify this. How could he rationalize the risks, the costs. It was a question he’d never asked himself before. He’d always just believed--believed that following orders could save them, that it would be worth it in the end.

But the places it took them . . . Would he trade in his brother’s life in name of the pursuit? How much would he give before he walked away? How many orders could he follow blindly into despair until he finally opened his eyes?

The Winchester family existed on the brink of destruction. They all walked a fine line, balancing somewhere between danger and death. He hadn’t realized just how close they came to crossing it. It only took a fraction, a moment, an imperceptible imbalance, to send them hurtling over it, into the abyss that awaited them on the other side.

After so many years of fighting the supernatural entities, Dean almost believed he was like them. He had defeated so many evils, he had survived so many close calls, he had begun to believe in his own invincibility.

Leave it to Sam to teach him a hard lesson in mortality.

He let his hand linger in Sam’s hair, needing the touch to assure him that Sam was real. The steady rhythm of his brother’s heard was a sweet lullaby, and he let himself be soothed by it.

He had to fight--harder. He could never let up, never relax, never put his guard down. He had to use every mortal measure he could to ensure the survival of those around him. His own mortality meant very little; Sam’s meant everything.

He would be the one people could count on. He’d be strong when no one else could. He’d be the soldier for his father, the protector for his brother. He’d be the link in the chain that made them stay together. Because everything out there was playing for keeps, and Dean finally realized just how much he had to lose and how close he came every day to losing it.

He may lose it, but he would never surrender it.

Time slipped away from him, and he did not move from his spot by Sam’s bedside. The night had thickened and morning approached. The bustle of the hospital had slowed.

Some time later, John rejoined him by Sam’s beside, observing his youngest son with distance. "How’s he doing?"

Dean’s gaze did not stray from his brother’s sleeping form. "He’s doing fine."

John merely nodded, silent security enveloping them all. He let his hand rest on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean did not acknowledge its presence but did not push it away. Then he reached out his own hand and gently gathered his brother’s hand into his own.

The sunlight was rising steadily, filling the room with fresh daylight. Life in the hospital buzzed out in the hallway, but the Winchester men stayed where they were, quiet, connected, and alive.

Part 3: Never Turn Back

John Winchester was tired. Not just a little sleepy, but bone-weary, profoundly exhausted, deep within his soul.

He scrunched his face up as he shifted in the driver’s seat, squinting into the fading rays of the sunset that was rapidly vanishing on the horizon. This was supposed to be an off weekend, a chance to recharge their batteries. He could see that Dean wanted it, though he was too obedient to ask for it, and Sam had been extra moody without a reprieve from the continual hunts they seemed to be on lately.

But evil doesn’t take vacations.

So when a guy at the local bar started talking about a recent mysterious death at a renowned haunted farm, John had put down his beer and listened.

Two days later, they were off. The research had been simple and easy. The haunting sounded straightforward enough, and the site was only an hour and a half away.

Or so he thought. They’d been driving from the directions John had written down on a bar napkin and two hours had already passed. Dean was unphased, seated in the front studying the landscape. Sam was growing restless.

"Are you sure we didn’t take a wrong turn?" Sam ventured.

John glowered. "No."

Sam raised his eyebrows and looked back down at his book.

It didn’t matter if John was off course; he would never turn back, he would never allow his sons to see him admit wrong. He had created himself as their fearless leader, to be obeyed and followed without question. Lately he’d retreated deeper into that role, as Sam pulled further and further away.

In general, John regarded his sons with purposeful wariness. He didn’t show them emotion; he showed them calm and control. They couldn’t be second-guessing orders when all hell broke loose; there’d be no way to keep them safe. The military had taught him that, and the way he figured it, the Winchesters were definitely at war.

He glanced again at the napkin, wondering if the road smeared by the perspiration of his beer mug was actually more important than he remembered. He brought it to his face and studied, trying to make out the blurry lettering.

In the growing dimness and in his distraction, he almost missed the gravel turnoff. As soon as he saw it, he slammed hard on his breaks, turning the wheel sharply to make the turn. The tires squealed and the car pitched and kicked up gravel. Sam looked up in vague interest, holding his book open with his hand and straining to stay upright. Dean merely braced himself against the side of the car.

By the time they pulled up the bumpy drive, twilight had fallen. As John brought the car to a rolling stop, Dean was already opening his door, eager to stretch his legs.

John killed the engine and the family tumbled out.

Dean cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders as he took in the landscape. "Man," he muttered. "Why can’t spirits ever haunt mansions in Beverly Hills?"

John ignored the question and went to the trunk.

Sam snorted. "That’s the upper echelon of ghost hunting-the ritzy professionals," he said. "You think they’re going to let some stranger off the street get rid of their problem or hire some top notch, top secret dude in a suit and a really expensive car?"

Dean took a gun his father offered him, passing it to Sam, then accepting another for himself. "You really think there are celebrity ghost hunters?"

"If there are celebrity ghosts, you’d better believe there are celebrity ghost hunters. People who live there, they’re just like that." Sam loaded his gun.

Studying the Victorian farmhouse in front of them, Dean absently began loading his own. Dean said, "Well, I wish we could have some of that action. I’m really tired of haunted farmhouses. I mean, what did farmers do fifty years ago? Kill each other and bury the bones in the back yard?"

John began gathering extra ammunition.

Sam shrugged. "’Most men live lives of quiet desperation.’"

The quotation silenced Dean as he pondered it. He turned to his brother. "What?"

"Henry David Thoreau. Famous American author."

"Dude, you’re weird."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

John interrupted their conversation as if it had never happened. "You boys ready?"

Dean immediately came to attention and Sam slouched beside him.

"Simple haunting. We find the bones, keep our eyes open, and get out." John’s orders were clipped, straightforward.

Nodding shortly, Dean said, "Can do."

Sam said nothing, barely acknowledged he’d heard his father.

The broodiness in his youngest son made him uneasy; after all, a soldier who didn’t communicate was usually one he couldn’t trust. He had tried discipline, which had only driven Sam further away. Indifference had met with the same reaction. But Sam did still listen to Dean, still followed his lead, so John let his trust in his oldest trickle down to his youngest.

The house was beyond disrepair. The front steps had mostly rotted away and the handrails leaned precariously to the side. The front porch itself boasted dangerous gaps and wood that had warped and splintered with age and weather. They walked carefully over the holes, treading lightly as the wood groaned in protest.

John led the way, pushing gently on the door.

It opened with the nudge. The beams of their flashlights danced over the walls, revealing more decay.

"Love what they’ve done to the place," Dean joked.

"It looks nicer than that motel we stayed at last weekend," Sam muttered.

John could sense Dean’s desire to respond. "Let’s focus," he said shortly.

Dean led the way now, taking point as they moved carefully over the debris. "Any idea where these bones would be?"

"Look in logical places--the basement, the attic, the fireplace. After that we’ll start checking the walls and the floor."

"Why didn’t they just bury them in the yard?" Sam asked as he stepped over a broken end table, close on Dean’s heels.

"Doesn’t matter," John said curtly, moving carefully in the rear, watchful of anything that might materialize behind them. "All accounts say that the body was never found and the man responsible never left this house. So we stick to the plan."

"Hey, found a fireplace," Dean said, shining his light on a far wall.

At that moment, John thought he saw a flicker of light off to his left. He turned, studying the darkness for a minute longer. Nothing moved.

Hesitantly, he turned back toward his sons who were moving to the fireplace. The hairs on his neck stood up suddenly and he opened his mouth to call out to them.

Then there was a horrific creaking, a snap, and they were gone. Both of his sons just disappeared.

The crash echoed in the house, an uneasy silence following it. A gaping hole was now open in front of him, rotted boards jutting about the ragged edges.

John stared, unmoving. He blinked once, then again, watching as the dust settled.

They were gone.

Conscious thought finally sunk in and he came to life. "Dean? Sam?" he yelled, rushing to the edge of the hole.

The floorboards moaned, protesting under the strain of John’s weight. He backed up, but strained his neck to look down.

"Dean?" he called again. "Sam? Are you alright?"

There was no response and it took a moment for John to distinguish between the darkened objects piled below. He shone his flashlight down, searching for movement. "Sammy? Dean?"

Then he saw it, a glimpse of a white t-shirt. He redirected his beam and saw the outline of a body. Dean.

"Dean!" he yelled.

Flicking the light to the side, he caught a glimpse of more human flesh. Sammy.

They had landed mere inches apart, both on their backs. Their outstretched hands were practically touching.

"Boys, talk to me," he said, flashing the light at their faces. He swore.

With a shaking breath, he willed himself to leave the sight of his sons, knowing he was no good to them a floor above.

The stairs were in better shape than expected, and after testing the first two cautiously, he raced down the rest. The air became dank as he went down, cool in the summer evening.

He moved instinctually. Although the terrain was foreign, he skirted the scattered debris in the basement, moving to where he had last seen his sons. "Dean? Sammy?"

His flashlight again fell across the whiteness of flesh. My sons.

Dean had connected solidly with the concrete floor. Nothing had broken his fall. He was unconscious, but showed no other signs of injury.

John knelt next to his oldest, placing a hand gently on his neck. "Dean?" he called, feeling the thready pulse. "Dean."

His firstborn didn’t as much as twitch. Carefully, he scanned for injuries, without jostling his son, all too aware of the risk of spinal injuries. "Dean? You have to wake up for me, son."

Dean, usually his obedient soldier, did not show any outward signs of life. Then he saw the blood--lots of blood--forming a puddle on the floor around Dean’s head. Despite everything he knew about not moving fall victims, he knew this amount of blood loss was even more serious.

The blood was seeping from a deep gash in the back of Dean’s head. It was a relief to see no gray matter. It wasn’t perfect news, but it was something.

Carefully rolling Dean back, he moved to his younger son.

John swallowed bile. Sam had to be dead. He had to be. All he could see was blood, wet stickiness everywhere, and the rusty metal rod that grew unnaturally from Sam’s upper torso.

Unlike Dean, Sam was awake, but much more clearly in trouble. Sam had landed on a low pile of dirt, whose purpose John couldn’t bring himself to imagine. The dirt was more forgiving, saving Sam from the serious head injury that Dean had clearly suffered. Small miracles.

However, the rod that had been in the dirt was nothing to scoff at. The amount of blood turned John’s stomach, an unfamiliar sensation. Looking closer, he could clearly see the metal rod protruding from Sam’s chest. Blood had already covered Sam’s t-shirt, pooling steadily below the teenager.

Two wide, hazel eyes stared at him. "Dad?" Sam’s mouth was open, gaping in shock and pain.

"Sammy…"

Sam’s hand grappled at his chest, trying to feel out the pain. His eyes showed little comprehension. "Dad?" he asked again, blinking hard as his face contorted. "Hurts."

John could not help but stare at the rod in Sam’s chest before grabbing his son’s hand, stilling its sluggish movements. "I know, Sammy. I know."

His baby was trembling; suddenly John missed the defiance that had defined Sam lately.

"…Dean…?" The word was little more than a strained whisper, but it carried so much emotional depth.

"You guys have sure gotten yourself into a mess this time," John said, trying to lighten the mood, to assuage the fear in his son’s eyes.

But the joke didn’t register in Sam’s face, and he swallowed it back guiltily. "You’ve both taken a fall, Sammy, but I’m going to get you out here, okay?" he said with a nod.

Sam’s eyes followed the nod. "Okay," he said as readily as he was able.

John smiled slightly, touched by the trust he still found in Sam’s eyes. Trust that when things were bad, his father could still save him.

He had to save them. His mind raced as he fathomed how. What do I do?

That wasn’t a question that usually ran through his mind. Usually he acted and reacted, no thought necessary. Injuries always required momentary analysis. He could judge the severity of the wound, see if he could treat it himself, and either act accordingly or bundle the boys up and get them to a busy hospital--one that didn’t have time to dig too deeply into its patients’ histories.

Over the years, John had treated broken bones and sewn stitches. There had been a few concussions, but rest and ice had covered the majority of their ailments. Most cuts and bruises had been minor.

But as he squatted in his cold, dark basement, he realized that this was beyond his capabilities. His fingers slick with his sons' blood, he fumbled for his cell phone, buried in the pocket of his jeans. He tried not to look at his sons while he called, tried not to see Dean’s head tilted to the side, tried not to see the unnatural protrusion from Sam’s chest. .

He shivered as he talked to the operator. His voice was raw when he hung up, hoping he had the address right, hoping they moved fast.

Focus, John, focus on the boys.

Closing his eyes, he readied himself, reminding himself of his first aid training. He took a deep breath and he moved back toward his sons.

He was drawn to the son he could make eye contact with. That contact anchored him, solidified him, kept him together.

But as he turned back to Sam, his hopes sank deeper. Sam’s eyes, usually so vibrant and evocative, were dull and empty.

"Sam? You've got to stay awake, Sammy, do you hear me? Stay awake." He was begging now, pleading to not be left alone.

Blood welled up suddenly, seeping from Sam’s mouth.

"Dad?" Sam’s voice was small, a child again. His teeth were stained red.

John’s breathing was nearly as ragged as Sam’s. He shook as he once again took Sam’s hand and brought it close to him. "Sammy, shh…don’t talk. It’s okay."

Blood now covered Sam’s chin, running down his cheek. His youngest son looked at him desperately, begging him for reprieve, for salvation, for anything. The teenager trembled violently as he fell victim to shock. "Daddy?"

With his free hand, John touched Sam’s cheek. "You have to hang on for me, Sammy. You hang on."

Sam had rebelled so much lately, that John wasn’t really surprised when Sam held his gaze a moment long before his eyes fell shut and his body fell lax, his head rolling slightly into John’s hand. Sam’s long and bloody fingers unloosened around his father’s hand.

"Sam?" John called. "Sammy?"

He hit Sam’s check, harder than he intended, and his son’s head rolled.

"Sammy?" he yelled now, although he knew his son couldn’t hear him. Though unconscious, he could still hear his son’s labored attempts at breathing. "Please, Sammy." He turned desperately to Dean, hoping to find some response from one of his sons.

But Dean was still prone, head turned away in the darkness. He missed Dean’s smile, his quick jokes, his ability to be exactly what his father needed. But Dean needed him now; Sammy needed him too. They were still his sons, and he was still their father. He wished he could make it go away with a band aid and a pat on the head.

Not this time. This was not something he could fix.

For the first time in 18 years, John Winchester panicked. As long as one of the boys was conscious, he could retain his composure; as long as there was someone watching for his lead, he could lead without question, without doubt. But both of his sons were unconscious, lying prone on the basement floor, both hovering far too close to death. His breathing began to hitch uncontrollably and he found himself falling backwards, hard. The world began to gray, dimming as he tried to catch his breath.

Mary, what do I do?

Things went black momentarily and when he opened his eyes he was looking up at the hole in the ceiling.

What a long way to fall.

He sat up, hoping it was a dream, a nightmare, a hallucination, anything but reality.

Dean had not moved and Sam was losing color as the pool of blood around him grew. He was whiter than a ghost. The thought made John laugh bitterly; after all, he should know.

His sons were dying.

No, no, no.

He looked up, beseechingly. "No," he pleaded. "Haven’t you taken enough?"

The house was silent and there was no answer except his own echo. For a moment, anger coursed through him and a guttural yell ripped through him. It ended with a sob, and he couldn’t manage much more than a groan. "Please."

A moment passed. Then another. Maybe more. Time had no meaning.

Then, through his grief, John heard it. Sirens.

He sat up, bewildered.

Yelling could be heard from above. He wanted to answer, to bring help where it was needed, but he found himself unable to speak.

A racket sounded from the stairs. John stared as two medics bounded into view, carrying a backboard and their gear. One was older, a woman. The other was young, a black man Dean’s age. The older one went toward the boys; the younger looked at him.

"Sir, are you hurt?" he asked. "Sir?"

John shook his head distantly, half perplexed by his presence. "No."

"Are you sure? You’re bleeding," he said, motioning toward his legs.

Like a child, John looked at his pants. Shakily he moved to stand, accepting the hand the medic offered him. "It’s not mine," he said. His knees felt stiff from kneeling, and his jeans stuck to him, wet with blood.

"Okay." The younger medic looked at him carefully, gauging his physical and mental state. "We’re going to take care of them," he said, his voice even and slow.

John just nodded, stepping away farther.

The medic glanced at him one more time before joining his partner with his sons.

The older medic, a woman in her late 30s, looked up from her work. "Sir, what are your sons’ names?"

"Dean," he said, nodding at her. Then motioning to the other, "Sam."

"Sir, has Dean been conscious at any point since the fall?"

John just shook his head.

The medic tried to show no expression, but he could see her cringe.

John felt his breathing tighten as he watched them work, stepping away again. We shouldn’t be here, this shouldn’t be happening. They were rolling Dean onto a backboard, stabilizing his neck in a collar. This isn’t happening.

More noise came from above as more emergency personnel arrived. John simply watched as the action unfolded, feeling as though he wasn’t connected to his body.

The woman medic was leaning close to Dean, calling his name. John could see the way her ponytail fell over her shoulder, dangling in Dean’s face. He could see her lips move in slow motion, falling mutely on his son’s still face.

He watched as a new team of medics was examining the rod in Sam’s chest, kneeling to try to see where the rod came from, how they could move Sam. They were talking quickly, loudly, but John could only see his son’s body jostle slightly as they worked, the t-shirt sticking awkwardly to his chest.

How is this happening?

He’d been careful. He’d be thorough. He’d researched every detail, every angle, every caveat. He’d been prepared.

Denial raced through him and he stepped farther away.

No.

Dean had to wake up. Dean had to crack a joke.

No.

Sam had to smile, brood, rebel, anything.

No.

A face materialized before him and he could see it yelling at him.

Mary?

He blinked and stared harder and the face focused. The young medic was looking at him. "We’re going to transport Dean to the hospital. We’re still working on moving Sam, and then we’ll get him out on the helicopter. You can’t do anything more here, sir. An officer would be more than happy to take you to the hospital to be there for your sons."

John thanked him without thinking, trailing behind as they carried Dean’s stretcher up the stairs. He followed them to the ambulance, noticing how pale Dean looked in the macabre flashing emergency lights. As the first set of medics opened the back, John leaned over his son, reaching out and almost touching him. He wanted to say something, encourage Dean, but nothing seemed right. Dean couldn't hear him anyway, but John didn't want to think about that.

Someone kept him from climbing in after his son and he watched desolately as the ambulance pulled away, jerking down the road. Please, help my son.

"Sir? What’s your name, sir?"

John blinked, the flashing lights overwhelming him. "John. John Winchester." The words were out before he realized what he’d said.

"Mr. Winchester, I know this is a difficult time, but we need to ask what happened here tonight." The officer held his pen primed over his notepad.

"We were…we were looking at the property," he said. "I don’t know. We were...looking to buy. We wanted to see if anything inside was...salvageable. And then the floor--it just--fell away."

"I’m very sorry, sir," he said with an apologetic smile, sensing John’s distress. "It’s just a formality, you understand. We can do this later." He flipped his notebook shut. "Let’s get you to the hospital."

John followed wordlessly, wondering distantly if the cops would mind his bloody clothes in their backseat.

00000000000000

He didn’t feel the bumps on the dirt road. He didn’t see the stars as they twinkled in the night sky. He didn’t notice how long the trip was. All he could do was stare out at the blackness as it passed him, trying to remember.

Sam had a math test on Monday, he remembered distantly. He’d brought his books in the car. He’d studied on the way up, even as Dean had tried to distract him. He would hate to miss that test.

Dean had a date tomorrow night. His oldest had tried to hide it from him, but the girl had called to confirm when Dean had been out. She had sounded pretty. They were moving soon, so John couldn’t see the harm in one date. His son was 22 after all.

He had a job interview on Monday--security, good pay. It was time for a new town, a new place, a new home.

He blinked and realized that time had passed. He didn’t recognize the scenery. He didn’t know long they’d been driving.

He blinked again and saw the hospital. The officer was talking to him, motioning to him. He opened the door and followed.

They didn’t take him to see his sons. Instead he found himself in a waiting room, too shell-shocked to demand answers. He filled out forms, replied to questions in monosyllables, and waited.

Then there was a doctor in front of him, one who looked too young, too petite. "Mr. Winchester?"

He looked up, his bewildered look an answer in itself.

"Mr. Winchester, my name’s Dr. Cavanaugh. I’m the doctor who treated your son, Dean."

That tidbit registered and John scrambled to his feet, suddenly aware of his surroundings. How long had he been waiting there? "Yes?"

"I’m afraid the blow to Dean’s head is quite serious," the doctor said slowly, carefully.

Normally John would have snapped at her for treating him so childishly, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

"He has a skull fracture, and there is pressure building up in his brain."

Both of the boys had suffered concussions before, and pressure in the brain was always a concern. But John could sense this time was different.

"There doesn’t seem to be any bleeding at this time, but if the pressure doesn’t go down, we may have to operate."

"Operate?"

"Relieve the pressure," Dr. Cavanaugh explained. "But we’re going to monitor him for now. I do think you need to be aware, though, that no matter what happens, your son may have sustained permanent damage."

"Permanent how?"

Dr. Cavanaugh licked her lips, taking a breath. "There’s no way to tell the extent of the damage to his brain until he wakes up. He may be fine, or he may experience other setbacks. Right now he’s in a coma."

The words hit John like a blow and suddenly his legs couldn’t support him. The doctor had a steady hand on him quickly, though, and he let himself be lowered to a chair.

"It’s too early to tell if it’s permanent," she said gently. "Dean has been transferred up into intensive care where we’re closely monitoring his condition. Why don’t you take a moment, then a nurse will take you to go see him."

John nodded wearily. "What about Sam?" he asked. "How’s Sammy?"

"I don’t know the condition of your other son, but I will find someone who does," the doctor assured him.

John didn’t acknowledge her, didn’t even see her go, just looked at the floor, feeling lost.

Now was the time he would offer the scathing review of the mistakes. He had delivered so many to his sons, passed the time in so many waiting rooms. You should have known better--that house looked decrepit. Why didn’t you pull back when you saw the give in the boards? How could you be so reckless, so stupid, so blind? Oversights get people hurt, gets them…

He didn’t want to finish his own line of thought. Usually he said it as a threat, but now it was so real.

…gets them killed.

Swearing, he rubbed a hand over his tired face.

"Mr. Winchester?" a voice said.

He looked up and saw a 30-something nurse standing in front of him. "Would you like to see your son now?"

John merely nodded.

At first all John could see was the bandage, the pile of white wrapped securely around his head. The bulk of gauze was in the back, making Dean’s head lay somewhat to the side.

The monitors didn’t seem worth noticing; he’d seen them all before. Electrodes stemmed from his son’s body. His complexion looked washed out, paled by the off-white hospital gown.

The worst part, though, was how passive Dean looked. Dean was obedient to a fault--but never submissive. That was one of his son’s strengths--his ability to balance his selfhood with his self-sacrifice, his capacity to think on his feet and follow through with a plan. Dean--the good little soldier.

Dean was his mirror. Dean reflected what John needed to see. He knew he used Dean as a crutch, his go-to man, his pick-me-up. He needed Sam, too, but more as a motivation, someone to protect, someone to save the world for.

He hated suddenly how willingly Dean would die in the line of duty, without question or remorse. He had molded his son into the person he needed him to be, and Dean hadn't even thought twice about it. And look where it's gotten you.

He almost fell into the chair. He could say nothing else, he couldn’t move. He just sat, watching his son’s eyelids, hoping to see movement.

It could have been minutes or it could have been hours. The door opened.

"Mr. Winchester?"

Heard that a lot recently. John squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to avoid reality.

Giving up the fantasy that this was a dream, John looked up and saw another scrub-clad doctor standing behind him. He didn’t recognize this one, and it was an African American man, in his late 30s.

"Could we speak outside?"

John gave his oldest child one last glance and left the room.

Once they were clear from the quiet activity of the ICU ward, the doctor took a deep breath. "My name’s Dr. Wendell. I was the lead surgeon operating on your son, Sam."

John gave a start as he realized he had momentarily forgotten about Sam, overewhelmed as he was by Dean’s condition. The awareness struck him like a blow. "How is he?"

The doctor paused, John waited. "It was a difficult surgery. The rod did extensive damage to Sam’s lung. It also severely broke several of his ribs. We had to spend a lot of tracking down bits of splintered bone. We think we got all of it, and we think we were able to stop the bleeding and repair what we could of his lung. He was intubated in the ER and we’ve hooked him to a ventilator. His lungs won’t be able to support his breathing, not for awhile, and we’ll have to see how the right lung starts regaining its capacity to know the long term effects of the damage.

"Sam’s condition is very serious. The risk of infection is high, and with injuries to the lungs, we’re always concerned about fluid, maybe pneumonia." The doctor paused. "The next few days are very critical in Sam’s recovery."

"Can I see him?" the words were out of John’s mouth before the doctor could continue. Sam had been alone far too long.

Dr. Wendell looked skeptical. "You need to understand the severity of your son’s condition. He’s a very sick young man right now."

"Can I see him?" John asked again, more insistently.

"Not at the moment. He’s still in recovery. Once he’s moved to ICU, you’ll be able to spend limited time with him."

John couldn’t think of anything to say. Sammy . . .

"You need to get some rest, Mr. Winchester. Your sons are in good hands. You can count on that."

Dr. Wendell sounded reassuring, but John barely heard him. "Thank you," he muttered and turned back toward Dean’s room. As he navigated the ward, though, he recognized Dr. Cavanaugh moving to intercept him.

"Mr. Winchester," she said. "I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave."

"Leave?"

"Yes, Dean is resting right now and visiting hours are over. Why don’t you go home, get some sleep--"

"I don’t want to go home, get some sleep, I want to see my son." He attempted to move passed her.

She moved to block him. "We can’t let you do that right now."

John looked at her in fury. "He’s my son. Where else am I supposed to be?"

She nodded steadily. "I know how you must feel. I promise, Dean’s condition is stable. You aren’t going to do him any good by staying here and exhausting yourself--"

"Who are you to tell me what’s good for my sons?"

"Mr. Winchester, we can get you set up in the hospital hotel--"

"You get yourself a room and leave me alone!" he snapped, trying to move past her again.

She stood her ground, and several other nurses and doctors had gathered around. "Mr. Winchester, you need to calm down."

The crowd made John more defiant. "No! I don’t think I want to calm down! I just want to see my son!"

Dr. Cavanaugh held her hand out in placation. "I know, but you have to-"

"I don’t have to do anything!" He moved to push past her again, this time more physically.

The doctor stumbled, which was enough to incite the gathering crowd to restrain him. Strong arms were around him, and as he tried to pull away, he realized just how weary he actually was. But he did not admit defeat and raged against them until he felt a sharp sting in his leg and things began floating and he drifted into oblivion.

00000000000000

He woke up to the sound of a heart monitor. Rolling his head, he groaned. Hospital?

Opening his eyes, he saw the IV in his hand. He grimaced and pulled it out. Looking down, he saw that he was still fully dressed--no hospital gown. That meant…

"Sam, Dean," he said, shooting out of bed, only to be met with a wave of dizziness that sent him back down.

A nurse came in and smiled brightly at him. "Good to see you’re awake."

John rubbed his tongue over the inside of the mouth, trying to clear away the cottony feeling. "You drugged me."

She checked his chart and glanced at him. "Appears so."

As much as he wanted to shove her smile down her throat, John remembered the events from last night. "Where are my sons? How’s Dean? Sammy?"

"I just got on; I’d have to check," the nurse said, jotting some notes. "Why don’t I put your IV back in, and--"

"No," John said flatly, pushing himself up again. His head spun momentarily but he remained upright. "I need to see my sons."

She protested as he moved to the door. "Sir, you really should lay back down."

"You going to drug me again?"

"Not unless there’s a need for it." She said it pleasantly enough, but John could hear the threat laced underneath.

John forced a smile. "I’m fine. I just want to go check on my sons."

"Look, just wait here, and the doctor will be in to talk to you shortly," she said.

"No, I need to see them. Dean’s in a coma, Sam--Sam just got through surgery. I need to know," he said, moving unsteadily toward the door.

"Sir, please--"

The struggle was thwarted when Dr. Cavanaugh came through the door. She smiled broadly. "I see you’re awake," she said. "And calmer, I hope."

John did not return her friendliness. "Where are my sons?"

Dr. Cavanaugh grew serious, nodding to the nurse who excused herself. "Please, sit down, Mr. Winchester."

"I don’t want to sit down," John hissed at her.

She sighed, collecting herself. "Dean’s condition is unchanged. He’s still in a coma. However, his vitals are strong and stable. We’re closely monitoring the pressure in his head and we’ve consulted a neurosurgeon on his condition. It’s a waiting game now."

Struggling to keep his breathing even, John clenched his teeth. "What about Sam?"

"While I am not treating Sam, I did take the liberty of looking into his condition. He was cleared from recovery late last night and is currently in the ICU. He’s still on the ventilator and sedated. You’ll be able to see him this morning. Dean, too."

"Where are they?" John asked, standing to move past her.

She stopped him, her hand out as a simple request. "I’ll take you to them in a moment. I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry about last night. You needed your rest--"

"Just take care of my sons," John interrupted. "I can take care of myself."

She looked like she wanted to say something but sighed instead. "Of course," she said. "I'll have a nurse take you to see Sam, and then we'll get you in to see Dean. Okay?"

John eyed her with distrust, but nodded.

After introducing him to a nurse, Dr. Cavanaugh returned to her rounds. John followed the attentively, unconsciously mapping out the hallways, noting restrooms, nurses' stations, vending machines. The nurse paused before she motioned to a room.

"Sam's condition is critical," she explained. "He's going to look bad--hooked up to a lot of machines. You need to be prepared for that."

John would've laughed had Sam's condition not frightened him so much. After everything he'd seen, a few machines weren't about to unnerve him.

The nursed looked hesitant, uncertain if her warnings had truly gotten through to the emotionally unhinged father. But she gave up her fight, and let John inside.

Despite his familiarity with injuries and hospitals, he realized the nurse's warnings had been valid. Sam looked terrible. His youngest son look buried under the mess of equipment that surrounded him and the leads that led away from his body.

Moving closer, he saw that Sam's complexion had not improved from the basement floor--he still lacked all semblance of color. Dark circles smudged under his eyes. His hair had been hastily pushed to the side, making his son look younger than he was. He's only 18.

It was the tube from his mouth that made John sink to the chair. He had seen the boys in various states of consciousness but never unable to breathe on their own. It seemed wrong--for all of Sam's need to define himself, to break away, he was dependent on a machine to live.

John couldn't move, he couldn't think. He just sat by his son's side, watching the mechanical rise and fall of his youngest son's chest.

00000000000000

When the nurse told him he had to leave, he would have fought her. Fortunately for her, she had the right bargaining chip: she offered to take him to Dean's room.

"Dean’s condition hasn’t changed," she said, and he could tell it was a rote speech she had perfected. "Dean may not be able to respond to you, but he still needs you there. He may look bad, and it may not seem like you’re getting through. But some studies suggest that coma patients do respond positively when they hear the voice of a loved one.

It was clichéd, but well intentioned. John thanked her, and went in.

Dean had not changed. The bandage was still wrapped securely about his head and the monitors beeped and hummed in the same cadence as the night before. And Dean still had the same almost-peaceful look on his face. But the stillness was unnatural, a false calm, and it unnerved him.

He took a seat by Dean’s bedside, trying to look at his son without seeing his helplessness.

"I’m sorry," he said. "I should have kept this from happening."

The apology had no effect on Dean. John shifted uncomfortably.

"Bad leadership always falls back on the men," he said. "I should have kept you safe. You shouldn’t have taken a fall because of my inability to prepare."

The words sounded hollow, flat in the sterile room. He leaned back in his seat with a sigh. Dean was never much on apologies anyway; he understood blame and guilt--apologies between them were superfluous.

Instead John chose to sit. Some of his favorite memories of his son were Dean’s silent presence as he stood beside him. They shared a silent understanding, a bond that had been established the night John put Sammy in Dean’s arms and told him to not look back. Dean had never looked back, never questioned orders. That steadiness didn’t need words, it simply was.

Dean had become a man that night, more a man than he usually was. Dean was the responsible one, really, no matter how cavalierly he acted. Dean was the one who made sure there was food in the refrigerator, who made sure Sammy got to and from school.

In return, John had granted his son his utmost respect, his total trust. Dean was allowed to clean the guns, take point on hunts, go out for the weekends. He didn’t have to tell his son how proud he was of him; he showed it to him by responsibilities and freedoms that he granted him.

He would have stayed there forever, but his legs slowly began to ache and his stomach turned hungrily. He tried to remember when he had last eaten. When the math became too difficult, he stood, giving Dean one last hearty look before exiting the room

John had barely shut the door, when a man approached him.

"I’m Dr. McClintock," the man introduced himself with a perfunctory extension of his hand.

John took it slowly.

He shook with a mild smile. "Dr. Cavanaugh called me down," the doctor explained.

"My sons are still unconscious," John replied quickly.

Dr. McClintock looked uninterested. "She called me to talk to you, Mr. Winchester. You’ve been through extensive trauma recently, and she is worried with how you’re handling it."

"Well, I appreciate the concern, but-"

"But nothing. You haven’t eaten, have you? Of course you haven’t. Let me buy you breakfast."

As if on cue, John's stomach grumbled. They were short on cash, and he hadn’t even started to think about how he was going to afford the hospital bills. "Okay."

An elevator trip and a cafeteria line later, John was seated uneasily across from the doctor, chomping voraciously on a helping of bacon and eggs.

"So," the doctor began casually. "What were you doing with your sons?"

John eyed him warily. He had dealt with too many psychiatrists, social workers, and cops to trust this one. "We were looking into buying the property. Rebuild it. A new place to call home. We’ve been on the road a lot; I thought it might be nice for the boys to have a place to settle."

"So you took them at night and broke in? To look around?"

"Do you have something you’re trying to say?"

Dr. McClintock cocked his head. "You have more defense than grief right now."

John stood up angrily, his chair clattering. "I don’t have to sit here and take this."

"Mr. Winchester, please, sit down. You haven’t finished your breakfast."