Summary:  He had been so sure Sam was safe. And now? Now, it was like every evil thing in the world was mocking him. Wee!chester fic.
A/N:  Look, Mom! No spoilers! But I do have lots of gratitude for my partner-in-crime, Faye, just for being her. And for Brenna, who put together the most kick-ass website known to man. Or at least, to SN-dom!
Disclaimer:  Nope, still not mine.

It was cold. He was cold.

The only part of him that was warm was his side, but he knew it wasn’t supposed to be. And that scared him a little.

Okay, maybe a lot.

“Don’t break position,” Dad said. “No matter what.”

No matter what.

So, even though he was shivering so hard he could barely hold his gun, even though the body of the (thing he had to keep reminding himself. It’s a thing, not a person anymore) was lying only inches away from him, even though he was starting to feel a little lightheaded, a little nauseous, he didn’t move.

Dad would come for him. Dad always came. Maybe not right when he said he would, and maybe he had forgotten him at time or two, at school, at the neighbor’s . . .

But this was different. This was a hunt.

Dad would come.

He just had to hold on a little longer.

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Even the midst of battle, John didn’t lose track of his sons. Dean was close – he could hear him, feet crunching through the brittle surface of frozen snow.

He cursed the weather, knowing it left them more vulnerable, more exposed. But Dean was careful. He was a good hunter. He had learned his lessons well.

And Sam . . . Sam was safe. Hidden away, just outside the perimeter John had marked. Involved enough to feel like he was a part of things, like he had a role. But not close enough to the action to be a liability.

Sam had good instincts, was as skilled with a gun as his brother had been at that age. Maybe even more skilled with a knife. But he was young. Inexperienced in much more than a simple exorcism or routine salt-and-burn. He needed to learn, too, John knew. But this wasn’t the time for a training exercise. Hunting werewolves was serious work. They were smart and agile and damned fast, and even a competent ten-year-old had no business trying to face one down. He’d left Sam in a position to spot trouble if it came – or tried to escape. For now, that was enough.

Two shots rang out in quick succession, the last echoing oddly through the trees.

“Dean?”

“Got one!”

John nodded to himself. Two more to go.He scanned the darkness, looking for signs of the others.

A rough growl behind him was the only warning he had. He dropped and fired as the werewolf bore down, jaws snapping the air where his legs had been, seconds before. He heard it hit the ground with a dog-like yelp, and then it was up again, scrambling toward him.

His second shot found its heart.

He felt Dean’s presence before he saw him and answered his unasked question.

“I’m alright.”

Panting a little from the adrenaline rush, he let Dean pull him to his feet. He saw the flash of worry in Dean’s eyes, but didn’t respond to it. It disappeared almost instantly and he felt a little swell of pride – watching Dean’s focus, his determination. His skill.

He’s a good soldier. No less than what he expected, but John allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction.

He motioned Dean north while he moved south.

It started to snow – wet, heavy flakes that quickly covered the frozen ground, obliterating their footprints, and the werewolves’ as well. The hunt would be harder now. Time was of the essence.

His jacket and jeans were quickly soaked. The snow began to thicken, blanketing the woods around him in a peaceful quiet.

It barely lasted an instant.

He heard a snap and lunged sideways. Something heavy hit him in the shoulder and shoved him down.

He wedged a hand beneath his body, pushed himself away. It was on him again before he could stand, and he felt a row of teeth dig into his back. They didn’t break the skin – he had on too many layers – but they worked as a perfect distraction.

He twisted, ducked and the werewolf sailed over him. It rolled as it landed, already turning on him. He dropped to one knee and raised his gun, this time finishing the job with a single shot. It collapsed in front of him, its blood staining the ground with dark fingerprints.

He exhaled a long breath and flicked the safety on, calling to Dean as he tucked his gun in his waistband.

Three werewolves dead. Not bad for an evening’s work.

Time to bless and bury the bodies and get back on the road.

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The snow made it harder for him to see, less sure of what direction his father come from. But at least it covered the body a little.

He hadn’t felt bad about shooting it until it changed. Once it was human again, it was a lot harder. Even though it had hurt him, it had been a monster then.

It was a person now.

His mouth suddenly ran dry and he forced himself to swallow, desperately trying to not get sick.

His side throbbed. He’d tied his flannel shirt over it as a makeshift bandage, but it was still bleeding. He didn’t know how else to make it stop.

He didn’t lower his gun, though, even though he had to hold in both hands. It took too much effort to keep it in just one, but Dad would expect him to stay ready.

He made himself stand up to change position. His legs had started to cramp and he knew that if he didn’t move now, he wouldn’t be able to.

The pain was sudden and excruciating. Like being burned with a hot poker. He gasped as he put a hand out, closing his eyes against another wave of dizziness. The little knobby pine he’d been sitting near barely held him and he slid awkwardly back to the ground.

“Dad . . .” he whispered into the darkness. He kept the rest of the thought to himself. Please come soon.

Dean was in high spirits as they made their way back to the road. Three werewolves down. And one, he’d killed himself. It was hard to stifle a grin as he glanced at his father.

John must have sensed his jubilance. He reached out a hand to cup Dean’s neck, squeezing it briefly.

“Good job tonight.”

The rare praise brought a flush to Dean’s cheeks he was glad his father couldn’t see. He ducked his head, letting himself smile a moment longer before clearing his throat.

“You think that’s all of them?”

John’s hand dropped back to his side.

“Three missing people, three sets of tracks.”

Dean nodded. He’d already known the answer – he just wanted to keep Dad talking.

“So, where are we headed next? Ypsilanti?”

“Portsmouth.”

Dean raised his head at that. “What’s in Portsmouth?”

“Got a call from a contact a couple hours ago. There was a fire.”

John didn’t look at him.

He almost stumbled. There was a fire. It meant so much more than that – meant there was a lead on what had killed Mom.

“If we leave tonight, we should be there by mid-morning.”

Dean didn’t know what to say. Too many thoughts were swirling in his brain, each vying for dominance.

He stifled them, knowing Dad wouldn’t appreciate questions, would tell him what he need to know in his own time.

Instead, he settled for, “Yes, sir.”

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He tried to keep his breathing shallow. It hurt a little less that way, gave him something else to focus on besides the raw fear that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He clutched his arms over his middle, trying to put more pressure on the wound and stem the bleeding.

There was so much blood. His hands were sticky with it, his coat heavy. It smudged the snow where he sat and stained his jeans.

It was a completely illogical, irrational thought, but he wanted to scoop it all up, hold it to him, somehow put it back where it belonged.

He was so cold.

Tears stung his eyes, mixed with the melted snow running from his bangs. Hours had passed, and Dad and Dean weren’t back.

Anything could have happened. Maybe they were out there in the dark, too, alone and hurt.

Maybe they weren’t coming back.

He stifled a sob, feeling ashamed. He was a Winchester. Winchesters didn’t cry. And they didn’t give up, and they didn’t leave a man behind.

They were coming for him. They were. And then everything would be okay.

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Dean saw him first, huddled against a tree next to a snow-covered mound. It looked like he was asleep, which didn’t bode well for their father’s mood. Dean braced himself for the tirade that was to come. They were too well-trained for this kind of error.

“Sam!” His father’s voice cut through the stillness and Dean winced from the tension that started to radiate from him.

And then it ceased to matter.

Blood everywhere. All around Sam. All over Sam. It stood out against the starkness of the snow, bathed in now-hazy moonlight.

“Dad . . .” As John reached for him, Sam collapsed against his chest, arms hanging limply.

John held him for an instant, then laid him back on the snow. “Where, Sammy? Where are you hurt?” The question was unnecessary – as soon as John let go, Sam’s hands curled over his side, still clasping the gun.

John parted Sam’s coat and untied the flannel, fingers fumbling with panic.

Dean knelt beside him, pulling the gun from Sam’s hands and then cradling his head. He was dumbstruck by the sheer amount of blood. He drew a shaky breath as he combed through Sam’s bangs, trying to calm him. Trying to calm himself. “Sammy . . .”

Sam stared up at him with eyes gone wide from pain and shock. He whimpered and tried to twist away from John’s inspection, and Dean tasted bile as he kept a hand splayed over Sam’s forehead, trying to still him. Tears pricked his eyes as one of Sam’s hands grasped ineffectively at his arm. He shifted, folding it into his own.

Sam’s other hand perched on his father’s arm, and John could feel the tremor in it. Rage sparked through him, hot and blinding. At this life he’d been forced into, that his boys had been forced into. At the evil that kept wounding his family again and again. At the knowledge that, even though they’d prepared and planned, they still hadn’t been spared.

He’d worked so hard to protect them, but now one of his worst fears had come home to roost. One of his sons, hurt. Sam, prostrate on a patch of crimson snow, maybe dying – from something that had happened when he should have been safe.

John’s vision swam and it took everything in him to hold himself together. He let the rage drown out the fear, the terror, the overwhelming dread that he was a hair’s-breadth away from losing another member of his tiny, precious family.

“Damn it, Sam! What the hell happened?” His tone was harsh and Sam visibly recoiled.

It took him a couple of tries to get the words out. “One of the . . . werewolves . . . its claws . . .” Sam faltered, breath hitching.

It was then that they really noticed the human-shaped mound a few feet away, piled now a dense cover of snow. There was a dark trail of blood edging out to where Sam had been sitting, and, though the details were still unknown, the basic fact was obvious: Sam had faced down a werewolf. Sam, who was supposed to be well beyond the boundaries of the fight. And instead, had ended up on the front lines.

Dean’s hand tightened, trying to offer comfort, a litany of Sammy, it’s okay, you’re okay, please be okay rolling from his tongue.

“You weren’t supposed to be involved in this.” Lost in his own emotions, John didn’t realize how accusatory the words sounded. “You were supposed to sit here until we were done. That’s all!”

He pulled off his own shirt, pressing it over Sam’s wound without noticing the way Sam’s hand fell away from him or how the pain that flared again in his eyes had nothing to with John’s more hurried than gentle ministrations.

Dean did, though. He bent even closer over his brother, his lips by Sam’s ear, whispering reassurances.

“Dean – go get the car.”

His mouth dropped open and he started to speak. Sam’s grip tensed reflexively.

John sensed the hesitation and looked up, scowling as he bit out, “Dean – now!”

Dean muttered a “Yes, sir,” carefully prying Sam’s fingers away from his and giving a soft squeeze before he stood up. “I’ll be right back, Sammy. Right back.” He waited for Sam to acknowledge his words before breaking into a run, sprinting toward the Impala.

John kept a firm hand on Sam’s side while he looked for further damage. “You hurt anywhere else?”

“No, sir.” Sam’s voice was weak but aware.

John pressed a calloused palm to Sam’s forehead. It came away much too cold, and John was torn between relief that there was no fever yet and fear that he was hypothermic. He pulled the boy toward him, ignoring Sam’s gasp as he wove his coat over his son’s thin arms.

He stood, lifting Sam’s light weight with ease. They were almost to the car by the time Dean had it started.

John maneuvered Sam into the backseat, nodding with approval when Dean climbed in beside him. He watched Dean slip his leg under Sam’s head, then took Dean’s hand and placed it over the center of the wound, pressing with enough force to make Sam moan. His eyes met Dean’s, and he saw his own fears reflected back at him. He patted the hand. “Keep it just like this.” As he let go, he added, “And don’t let him fall asleep.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

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The car fishtailed down the old logging road, spurred on by a string of growled curses. John kept both hands firm on the wheel and a foot pressed against the accelerator.

Dean used the pressure on Sam’s side as much for restraint as to control the bleeding; a couple of sharp turns nearly had them both on the floor.

“Dad, slow down.” It was as close to an order as Dean had ever come, and the look on John’s face in the rearview mirror told him it was less than appreciated. But the car slowed and the fishtailing mostly stopped. Dean felt the change as they crossed back onto asphalt.

He brushed Sam’s bangs back from his forehead, slowly, slowly, hoping in vain that Sam would stop shaking.

“Sammy, what happened?” He kept his tone quiet, gentle . . . the purposeful antithesis of his father.

“I stayed . . . where I was supposed to . . . I followed orders . . . I swear . . .” Sam’s words tumbled over themselves, rushed and breathless. He’d fisted a hand into Dean’s jacket, and now pulled himself closer, his too-bright eyes beseeching.

Something broke in Dean then, and he pulled Sam closer still, resting his forehead against Sam’s.

“Shhh, shhh, Sammy. You didn’t do anything wrong, you hear me? Not anything.” He held Sam’s body – too thin, too small, too young – against him, rocking, the litany once again on his lips.

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Dean carried Sam this time, while John brought in the first aid kit. His mouth was set in a grim line that usually meant he was either hot on the trail of something nasty or revving up for a fierce argument.

Sam was laid on the bed, John’s jacket and his own removed, his ruined flannel and John’s shirt peeled away. His long-sleeved tee shirt was ripped apart, the pieces dropped to the dingy floor. Sam writhed a little when a scarp of cotton refused to let go, slowly clotting blood neatly fusing it to the still-open wound.

John gave Dean a look and he moved from holding his brother’s hand to holding him down.

The expression on Sam’s face was heartbreaking. His eyes shone with tears he hadn’t shed, despite the fact that he was shivering almost uncontrollably as blood loss and shock caught up with him. Pupils dilated, brow wrinkled with pain, he looked too old, too resigned, almost apologetic, when Dean was the one who was sorry – sorry he had left his brother alone, sorry he hadn’t protected him, even sorrier still that, instead of being able to simply offer comfort, he was going to hurt him more.

“Just breathe with me, Sammy. In and out, nice and slow.”

Sam nodded rapidly, fighting for the control Dean wanted him to have. He’d almost achieved it when John brushed the first swab of alcohol across his side.

His back arched off the bed with a strangled cry.

“Dean . . . ” The tears Sam had been holding back spilled over his cheeks now, silent but for the ragged pants that were far too close to hyperventilation.

“Sam, you need to calm down. Now.” The words were delivered so tersely that Dean could only stare at his father in shock.

“Dad –”

“I mean it. Dean, you have to hold him better. I can’t have him moving around like this – ”

“Dad!”

“What?”

Any other time, Dean would have backed down instantly. But this was different. This was Sam.

“It’s too much. We have to give him something.”

Sam was clinging to him now, eyes squeezed shut. The little whimpered sounds that escaped his clenched jaw hit Dean like punches. It was all he could do to keep from crying himself.

“You still have that Percocet, don’t you? From Sioux Falls?” A broken arm from a tangle with a poltergeist had left John in the rare position of needing professional medical care – and grateful for some of the fringe benefits of modern pain management.

John stood without another word, snow swirling in as he opened the door and stepped into the darkness.

Dean’s attention remained with his brother. “It’s going to be better Sammy, alright? We’re going to make it better.”

Sam’s eyes stayed closed but he nodded again, making another effort to get his breathing under control. Dean drew his thumb over Sam’s forehead, trying to ease the worry lines.

The snow swirled in again as John returned, pill container in hand. He used his pocketknife to cut one in half and gave it to Sam. Sam gulped a few mouthfuls from the water bottle Dean held for him after and then sank back against him.

John wet another gauze pad with a healthy dose of alcohol. He motioned Dean to hold Sam again.

“But Dad, we have to wait for –”

“We don’t have time to wait. The pill will kick in eventually, but we have work to do now.”

He started to protest again, but Sam interrupted him. “S’okay . . . Dean . . .”

And again, the look Sam gave him was just so damned old.

He entwined his fingers with Sam’s and tightened his grip.

“Alright, little brother. Let’s do this.” And if his voice cracked a little, he was definitely not ashamed.

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Sam was mercifully still. Dean wasn’t sure if he was unconscious or just sort of in-between, lost in a drug-induced stupor. Either way, he wasn’t in pain. Which was almost more of a blessing for Dean.

The room was littered with blood-stained . .. everything. Sheets. Towels. Bed spread. Gauze. Clothes. He hadn’t realized how much of Sam’s blood covered him until Sam finally sagged, silent and pale, into the mattress.

Dean’s knees went suddenly wobbly. He tried for the bed and missed, landing in a tangled heap on the floor, a stained piece of cotton in his hand. He made himself stand, reaching for Sam, needing contact, needing affirmation that, in spite of all . . . this . . . Sam was still there.

Sam’s bare chest looked eerily fragile, the bones easily visible beneath his cold skin. Dean inched the blankets higher, concealing the shadow of bruises and bandages that nearly covered Sam’s whole side. He let his hand linger over Sam’s heart, overwhelmingly relieved by the steadiness of it.

Sam’s lips were still an almost bluish-purple, his face the shade of new parchment. He looked small and weak and spent.

But he was there

Dean drew a full breath for the first time in hours.

Behind him, he could hear his father cleaning up. John was quiet, but there was too much force behind his actions – a glass set down too hard, the first aid kit wrenched shut, muttered curses polluting the air.

Dean moved carefully beside him – uncertain, and with a growing sense of unease. “He’s going to be okay, right?”

John looked at him sharply before turning back to the hot water pouring from the faucet. He shoved both hands under the stream, not flinching, even when his skin turned red from the heat of it. He lathered roughly with the lye-based soap they used for laundry, attacking the lines of blood beneath his nails.

“He’ll be fine, Dean.”

No other information was forthcoming.

Dean fell silent. Just waited and watched.

John turned the water off with a jerk, rubbing his hands just as roughly on a threadbare towel that had found its way into their bags a few dozen motel stops ago. He crossed to the table, picking up his journal and a pen as he sat in one of the rickety chairs.

Dean kept watching, a new thought slowly taking hold. He mirrored his father’s movements, drawing up the other chair.

“We’re not going to make it to Portsmouth.” It wasn’t a question.

John’s look was downright cold this time. He bent over the journal again before answering.

“No.”

Dean took a moment to digest the single word, examining it for meaning.

“Sam didn’t do anything wrong. He was right where we left him. We must have missed something.”

The journal shut with a slam. “Damn it, Dean! I know that!”

John stood suddenly, throwing the book at the wall. Dean could only stare in open-mouthed shock.

“We were so close this time!” John whispered so fiercely, it was almost a hiss. “There were witnesses! Someone saw – ”

He drew in a ragged breath, running a hand through his hair. He looked tired, suddenly. Old. The same way Sam had looked when . . . Dean wouldn’t let himself finish the thought.

“Dad, they’ll still be there when we get there. It’ll only be a few days.” Dean kept his voice soft, as much to not disturb Sam as to placate his father.

John dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “The trail’ll be cold by then. It’ll be too late.”

John shook his head, staring blankly at something only he could see. “Get some sleep, Dean. I’ll take first shift with your brother.”

The tone brooked no argument. Dean watched a moment longer, wishing he had the words to erase the haunted expression from his father’s face. But long experience had taught him there was nothing he could say.

He changed into clean clothes and stretched out on the other bed, facing Sam.

And waiting for daylight.

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John woke him just before dawn.

Sam was still asleep – probably thanks to the second dose of painkiller he’d been given an hour earlier. He tossed and turned – tiny, restless movements – and his long fingers gripped the edge of the bedspread. But his eyes remained closed.

Dean watched his father bend low over the bed, a hand on Sam’s cheek as he whispered something too soft to hear. He pressed his lips to Sam’s forehead and stood, grabbing the car keys and the Beretta from the nightstand.

“He’s got a little fever. When he wakes up, give him one of these.” John handed him the Tylenol and then pulled on his jacket.

Dean stared in surprise. “Where are you going?”

John didn’t pause as he opened the door. “There’re some things I need to check out. I’ll be back before lunch. Call me if he gets worse.”

The door was shut before Dean could say anything else, and he was alone. A too-familiar feeling settled over him – the loss of something that, in truth, hurt much more than the loss of his mother.

He shuttered himself against it and turned back to Sam.

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John pressed a fist to his stomach as he drove. Too many more meals of black coffee and bitterness and he was going to have one hell of an ulcer.

His mouth twisted in a grimace of a smile. Would serve me right.

It tore at him – the thought of Sam, his son, his baby, left alone in the dark, bleeding and in pain. Of the claw marks on Sam’s side that could have easily meant the end of him. Of Sam’s young (innocent, still innocent) eyes searching desperately for safety, for comfort.

He’d seen that look too many times, on too many faces. Men – boys, really – who’d fought beside him in Da Nang. Who’d died beside him. He’d never thought he would see that same look on Sam or Dean. And even worse, know he was the reason for it.

He swallowed thickly as the images from the previous night replayed themselves endlessly in his mind.

He’d been so sure Sam was safe. And now? Now, it was like every evil thing in the world was mocking him. He’d almost lost his son. And he’d lost a lead, as well – an all-too-infrequent lead to finally track down and destroy the thing that had killed Mary.

Mary.

The thought of her, of what she would think of all this – of him – brought tears to his eyes. “Sammy’s okay. I won’t let anything happen to him.”

He couldn’t let himself think anymore about the fact that something already had happened. And that, when it boiled right down to it, he could no more protect his boys than he had protected his wife. That he was doing the best he could and still it wasn’t good enough.

He felt the rage well in him again.

“What do you want from me! Damn it, I don’t have anything more to give!” He didn’t realize he’d said – screamed – the words out loud until he felt the rawness of his throat, the pain in the fist he’d pounded against the steering wheel.

It sobered him suddenly, the emotion of it. He couldn’t afford to be emotional. There was a job to do, and he couldn’t focus on anything else until it was finished.

And, by God, he was going to finish it.

Then, and only then, would they truly be safe.

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The werewolf’s breath was hot against his face, its claws burning as they dug into his flesh. The gun jumped when he pulled the trigger, knocking him backward into the snow, the creature’s paw wrenched from him with brutal force.

He gasped, eyes springing open as he felt a weight on his head.

“Hey, Sammy. Take it easy.”

He tried to focus on his brother’s blurry face, relieved beyond the telling of it that he wasn’t alone.

“Dean?”

He struggled to sit up, feeling the gentle pressure move from his head to his chest. Pain lanced down his side and he gasped again, letting his head fall back to the pillow.

“I’m sorry, Sammy . . . I’m sorry.” Dean sounded apologetic – and scared. “You just can’t get up yet, okay, bud?”

He nodded, flailing out a hand. It landed on Dean’s shoulder and he felt himself relax a little. Dean covered the hand with his, and he relaxed a fraction more.

“Where’s . . . Dad?” The words hurt, and he realized his throat was dry. Parched, even. Dean seemed to read his mind, lifting his head a little as he placed a plastic bottle to his lips. He drank gratefully, and couldn’t help a tiny moan of disappointment when Dean pulled it away.

“You can have more in a little bit. Have to go slow.”

His vision cleared and Dean was at last in focus. He realized Dean hadn’t answered his question yet. “Dad?”

Dean sighed, patting his hand once before letting it go. “He’ll be back soon.”

And suddenly, it was clear what the words meant.

Dad left. Panic swirled through him, vague memories of his father yelling, angry, throwing things. And there was Dean’s voice, saying something . . . What was it he’d said? “Portsmouth.”

Dean jumped at the sound of the word, clearly startled. “What?”

“What’s in . . . Portsmouth?” If Sam hadn’t known it was important before, he definitely did now.

“Nothing you need to worry about, kiddo.”

“Is that where Dad went?”

“No, Sammy. Just – don’t worry about it, okay? How’re you feeling?”

He wasn’t sure how to answer. His whole body ached, and his side was still on fire. He had nothing to compare the pain to, just knew it was worse than anything he’d ever felt before. And he was still afraid – but, this time, for a different reason.

“Is he . . . mad at me?” He couldn’t look at Dean, not ready to see the answer that Dean wouldn’t be able to hide, no matter what he said.

“Sammy . . .” He felt the bed sink as Dean sat beside him, felt Dean’s hand carding through his hair. “He’s not mad at you. He was just scared. For you.Hell, I was, too.”

Sam nodded once. Me, too.

His eyes slid shut, even though he didn’t want them to. He struggled to open them again, but they were too heavy.

“Hey, don’t fall asleep yet. Need you to take this.”

Something was pressed against his lips and he opened his mouth. The pill sat on his tongue for an instant and then the water was back. He swallowed once, twice and then felt his body go lax, helpless to resist.

Dean sat with him for a long while afterward, watching Sam’s chest rise and fall in a slow, even cadence. Huddled beneath the covers, Sam looked very, very small, belying the fact that he’d grown two inches in the last six months. He was all arms and legs, his formerly chubby body now sharp planes and angles. He looked less like a child every day. But it was hard for Dean to think of him as anything else.

Especially now.

Dean stretched out next to him, facing the ceiling, but close enough for Sam’s head to brush his shoulder. He could feel heat radiating from Sam’s body – so much better than the cold of the night before, but still, a worry of its own.

He pressed his lips against Sam’s hair, whispering promises in the half-light. “You sleep. I’ll be right here.”

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John was nearly silent as he turned his key in the lock and opened the door. Even so, Dean’s eyes were on him as he pushed his way inside, dropping two large grocery bags on the sodden carpet.

“How is he?”

“Still has a fever, but he was awake.” Dean swung off the bed, rising slowly so the mattress didn’t rock.

“Good.” John shrugged off his jacket but left his boots on, Dean sitting next to him as he pulled out an atlas and some notes.

“I paid for a week on the room, bought you boys some supplies.” He motioned to the bags. “It’ll take me a day to get there, with the roads the way they are, but I should be back by Sunday.”

His eyes were on his notes, cross-referencing some of the information he’d gathered from his contact. Dean braced a hand on the table, shocked and disbelieving.

“Wait – you don’t mean you’re going anyway? You can’t just leave Sam here like – ”

“I’m not leaving Sam. You’re going to be with him.” John flipped the atlas open, plotting out his course.

“Dad, anything could happen! What if Sam gets worse? What if you get hurt?”

“Then you call Caleb or Pastor Jim and you get help.” His eyes focused on Dean, now, his tone fierce. “You know the drill, Dean. God knows, we’ve been over it enough times.”

And damn him, the hurt look in Dean’s eyes felt like a wound on his soul. He tried to soften things, knowing Dean was trying to look out for his brother, knowing it was what he’d taught him – raised him – to do. And grateful – so grateful for what his oldest was willing to do for his brother. For the family.

He needed him more now than ever, if he was really going to end this. Nothing less than single-minded focus would bring this evil to its knees and give them their lives back again. He hated the thought of leaving Sam like this, of leaving the boys on their own at all. But there was no other way.

“Look, son, your brother’s going to be fine. He lost some blood, and he’s going to be sore for a while. But it didn’t hit any organs and he’s already been awake. The fever’s not that high. Rest and Tylenol. That’s all he needs. He’ll be good to go by the time I get back.”

“I can go now, Dad.”

They both turned, shocked to see Sam upright, leaning against the night stand. It was pretty obvious he was using it to hold himself up. But then he let go, walking toward them with halting steps.

“I’m . . . okay. We can . . . go together.” Dean was beside him in an instant, latching on to Sam’s arm and leading him back to the bed.

“Sammy, you’re not going anywhere.” His point was well made when Sam sat heavily, more a function of his legs giving out than him making a conscious choice.

John watched him grit his teeth, closing his eyes against the onslaught of fresh pain. He crossed the space between them in long strides, dropping to his knees as he placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Your brother’s right, Sammy. You need to heal up. And I won’t be gone that long.”

“Please, Dad. We need – ” Sam drew a tremulous breath. “We should stay together.”

John narrowed his eyes, taking stock of his son. Sam’s eyes were still too bright and there was a faint flush along his cheekbones. He looked drawn and pale and more than a little unsteady.

But the lure of Portsmouth, of clues, of a lead – it was powerful. And Sam could rest in the car, sleep in the motel when they arrived. Dean could keep an eye on him. It wouldn’t be much different from what they were doing now.

There was a niggling voice in the back of his head that, if he listened to it, might have sounded a bit like Mary’s. Maybe sounded a lot like Dean’s. It was saying that Sam needed time, to be nursed back slowly, not to be hauled along on what could easily be another wild goose chase as though he were a piece of luggage.

Then, there was the other voice – the one that said it would be easier to have the boys along, since he didn’t know where the trail was going to take him. Easier to not have to worry about a time limit or making sure he retraced his steps in order to pick the boys up. Easier having Dean along as a back-up, if he needed it.

John gave in, barely even thinking about it, an unconscious look of pride crossing his face. “That’s my boy.”

He squeezed Sam’s shoulder lightly as he stood. He pulled his coat back on and headed out to the car, intent on clearing the back seat so there'd be room for Sam to stretch out.

As the door closed, Sam hung his head, wrapping an arm around his side and letting his chin fall to his chest.

Dean eased down beside him, laying a warm hand on the back of Sam’s neck.

“Sammy, what are you thinking?”

He sounded so disappointed and Sam’s eyes welled up. He kept his head ducked, not wanting Dean to see. “He’ll leave us . . . behind, Dean.”

Dean felt the shuddering breath as Sam tried to hold back tears, felt the faint shivers that raced beneath Sam’s skin as his body objected to being upright for so long.

He knew Sam was talking about more than just this one gig.

“He wouldn’t do that.” But he doubted his own words.

Sam turned toward him, his face so ashen that Dean was afraid for a moment he’d pass out. He swayed, and Dean grabbed him and pulled him in, Sam’s soft hair beneath his chin. He was still shaking, and Dean reached behind him, tugging one of the blankets free and hugging it over Sam’s shoulders.

“You wouldn’t do, that . . . would you, Dean?” Sam’s voice was faint, muffled against his chest.

It was so unlike Sam – to let himself be cuddled anymore, even when he was sick, to ask little-boy questions about people staying forever and never leaving him.

But Dean needed to answer as much as Sam needed to hear it. “I’m not going anywhere, kiddo. You’re stuck with me.”

A sigh went through his brother and he felt Sam’s weight sink into him a little more. It felt like relief.

He knew the feeling.

He heard his father at the door and let Sam linger a few more seconds before gently pushing him away. “How about you lay down while we finish packing?”

Sam didn’t argue as Dean lowered him carefully to the bed, still wrapped in the blanket.

“Want a little more water?”

Sam nodded, but by the time Dean grabbed a fresh bottle, Sam was asleep. He watched over him, feeling his father moving in behind him.

“We can wait a couple more hours.” It was a concession Dean hadn’t expected, and it made him more grateful than he could say.

John didn’t seem to expect a response. He stepped away, gathering clothes as he moved around the room.

Dean watched Sam sleeping again, still sick with the knowledge of what had almost happened – and fear of what might come. The thrill of the hunt was one thing. The prospect of losing his brother was something completely different. And there was nothing to guarantee it would never happen again.

And now he knew – they both knew – what choice their father would make, if there needed to be one.

He hesitated a moment longer, then picked up his own bag and started to pack.

Fin