Summary:  After a car accident, the brothers are seperated. During a long night apart, their perspectives change.   (Young!Winchesters)
A/N:  With immense gratitude (and giddiness) to the wonderful and talented Faye, my friend, beta, and all-around partner-in-crime, without whom I probably wouldn’t be writing at all anymore. (So I’ll let you decide if you want to thank her or beg her to stop encouraging me).
Disclaimer:  I dress them up, but I swear, I don’t take them anywhere.

They’d been on the road since Sam had been dismissed from school, hoping to ride out the daylight for as long as possible. It was a long drive from Centerville and Colorado Springs, and their father wanted them there before daybreak.

The weather had been uncooperative at best, with sporadic snow and sleet that clogged the wheel wells and streaked the windows with a sooty combination of salt, sand, and ice. The roads had been uncooperative as well, as they drove sometimes far ahead of the snow plows, and sometimes long after bared ground had been left to turn to ice. Dean had to concentrate more than usual on his driving, and the radio was at a normal volume for once.

Their conversation had been sporadic. Sam had been on one of his “why is the world the way it is” kicks and Dean had been playing his “I’m the older brother and therefore much smarter than you” card with equal fervor. It was fair to say that the teenager and his only-just-past-being-a-teenager brother were a little worn with each other’s company. The uneven thump of tires over re-patched asphalt made the perfect backdrop for their oft-repeated, forever-unresolved argument.

"All I’m saying is that there has to be more to life than this, some other way to make peace and still help people that doesn’t involve us moving every couple of months and putting our lives in danger."

"Sure, Sam. We’ll just stick our heads in the sand and pretend none of this exists, pretend that everything is fine out there in the dark - no monsters, no ghosts, nothing for people to be scared of."

"You’re not listening to me -"

"All I do is listen to you!" Suddenly, Dean was shouting. "You and your complaints about Dad, how we were raised, everything we do . . ."

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Dean ignored him. "You want me to see your side, Sam, and I don’t. I’ve heard it, every word, over and over again. And what it sounds like to me is you bailing on everything Dad taught us. It sounds selfish and immature and I swear to God, if I ever hear the word ‘normal’ again . . ." He left the phrase unfinished, but it was obvious the consequences he envisioned were not pretty.

A tense silence closed over them. Things had finally gone too far, and now both brothers were angry.

Sam stewed in the silence, refusing to even look at his brother. A dozen arguments crossed his mind, but they were all useless. Dean had told the truth. He didn’t see things Sam’s way; and he never would. And if that hurt far more than his father’s lack of understanding, Sam didn’t plan on revealing it any time soon. I just wish he’d . . . Sam consciously blocked out that thought. Any way it ended, it made him feel like the immature, selfish teenager Dean already thought he was.

Dean turned up the radio, blasting Black Sabbath through the uncomfortable quiet. Sam just didn’t get it. After all this time, in spite of the fact that they were closing in on what had killed their mother, not to mention all the people they had helped along the way, Sam still didn’t believe in the cause - not wholeheartedly, the way he should - and nothing he or their father said convinced him. Dean was sick of talking about it. Maybe he’d been a little harsh, but it was late and he was tired and he couldn’t bear the thought of continuing the conversation over the next three hundred miles.

He glanced at Sam, who was staring out at the completely blackened landscape as though it held all the answers. His brother had shot up over the past few months, his features sharpening as he took on the appearance of adulthood. But in spite of his appearance and his almost freakish intelligence, he was still a kid. A kid with a lot to learn. Dean sighed, wishing he had some magic words to make everything better. It had been so much simpler when Sam was younger and believed everything Dean told him. But those days were long behind them.

They drove on through the cold, starless night, both too angry and tired to talk anymore.

They hadn’t gone significantly further when the Impala suddenly started to skid. Dean fought for control, but there was no traction. All he could do was hang on.

The car slammed into the guardrail with a screech of tires and a long string of curses. The impact threw Sam against the window, head smacking against the glass with a sharp crack.

Dean had a death grip on the steering wheel that kept him in place, even as the rest of the car’s contents ricocheted off the nearest surface.

"Shit, shit, shit!"

Through a burst of white, Sam heard his brother’s expletives. Their cause hadn’t yet registered. His ears were ringing, and although he wasn’t unconscious, he felt disconnected, head throbbing somewhere apart from his body. As though through mud, he lifted an unsteady hand to his temple, trying to find the source of the pain.

"Are you alright?" Dean’s voice cut through the haze, and Sam had to think for a moment before he realized that Dean must be talking to him.

He nodded without thinking about it. He didn’t really know if he was okay, but Dean seemed to expect a positive response. His mouth suddenly dry, he tried to speak. "What . . . happened?"

"We hit a patch of ice. Damn it!" Dean banged his fist against the dashboard. "I can’t believe this!"

Sam's brain processed this news slowly, scrunching his forehead as he tried to think through the pain in his skull.

Dean pressed a hand to his sore neck, which had borne the brunt of the crash. He peered again at his brother, seeking signs of injury. "You sure you’re okay?"

Sam somehow managed to breathe out a "yes."

"Good," Dean said with a nod. At least there was one positive for this decidedly unpleasant night. "Stay here. I’m going to check the damage."

Dean was up and out of the car before Sam could answer. He watched Dean cross in front of the headlights, eyes on the passenger side of the car. He disappeared from view, bending to check the tires.

Sam shook his head slowly, trying to quell the ringing in his ears, but it only made it worse. He felt a little dizzy, and decided the best course of action was to try to stay as still as possible. Maybe then, the car would stop spinning.

The screech of the door and another round of curses brought the world back into focus. Dean shoved the headlight switch off and then groped in the back seat for his coat.

"I’m going to walk into town and get a tow truck. I can’t get a signal out here." He threw his cell phone onto the seat disgustedly. "You stay with the car. We’ve got too much stuff in here to leave it."

When Sam didn’t answer, Dean glanced at him sharply. "Are you listening to me?"

Sam nodded slowly and Dean stood.

"I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere." With that, he was gone.

Dean disappeared into the darkness. As Sam watched him, the dull throbbing in his head grew to something more akin to a spike being driven through his skull. He leaned forward, cradling his head on his arms where they rested against the dash. Distantly, he thought maybe sleeping wasn't the best option, but it felt so good to just relax, to try to ease the pain away. His eyes drifted shut, and darkness surrounded him.

Sam felt himself falling and jerked awake. The sudden movement sent a bolt of pain lancing up his neck to his forehead and he gasped. He closed his eyes, pressing his hands over them. The pain lessened somewhat and he tentatively raised his head again, only to stare at the emptiness around him in confusion.

Where was Dean? Where was his father? Why was he in the car alone? The thought suddenly struck him that they must be waiting for him. I must have fallen asleep! His heart began to race.

Sam was positive he was supposed to be somewhere else, even though he couldn’t pinpoint exactly where that somewhere was. All he could think was that his father and brother were waiting for him, and he was letting them down. Dad is going to be so pissed!

He closed his hand over the door handle, pulling up as he pushed his shoulder against the frame. The door refused to budge, and the movement kicked his headache into overdrive. Black spots danced across his vision, and he leaned back against the headrest, panting as he rode out a wave of nausea. What’s wrong with me?

He was shaking, more than a little cold, and his stomach was turning lazy loops at counter-beats with the pounding in his head. He drew several deep breaths, trying to gather his strength before sliding across the bench seat and out the driver side door. Fortunately, this one opened, and he drew in a breath of fresh, if frigid, night air.

He stood slowly, needing the door for leverage as his legs seemed unwilling to completely support him.

"Dean? Dad?" The words rolled away from him, swallowed by the night. Where are they?

He couldn’t think. Images skittered through his brain, but they were elusive. He couldn’t get a fix on where he was or what he was supposed to be doing.

Lights shone in the distance - the orange glow of a town. They caught his attention as he searched the darkness for signs of his family. Maybe that’s where I’m supposed to be.

With that goal in mind, Sam forced his unsteady limbs into action and started walking.

This night just keeps getting better and better, Dean thought, frustration mounting as he passed yet another closed gas station. His father was going to be angry, there was no doubt. They were supposed to meet him that night, and now, there was no telling when they’d be on the road again. The Impala’s front panel had crimped into the wheel well, making it impossible to drive. She needed a tow and a body repair shop.

"And apparently, they roll up the streets of this freaking town after nine o’clock!" Dean’s impatience bubbled over, and he shouted the words aloud, his breath making little puffs of moisture in the air.

He paused at an intersection, scanning both directions for likely prospects. He turned left and kept walking.

The intensity of Sam’s headache seemed to increase with every step, and every so often, a wave of vertigo would overtake him, leaving him breathless. He’d been sick to his stomach twice already and was fighting a tremendous battle of wills to keep it from being a third time. What he wanted, more than anything, was to lie down. Even the asphalt looked inviting at this point. But he wouldn’t stop. Dean and Dad are waiting. It was his only coherent thought, and he clung to it, using it to guide him forward.

A sweep of light blanketed the ground in front of him and he stumbled, not prepared for the sudden illumination. The brightness reignited his headache and the wider glimpse of his surroundings shattered his equilibrium. Unable to catch himself, he landed heavily on his hands and knees. Another spark of pain shot up from the base of his spine. This is such a bad night. Head swimming, he forced himself upright.

A car slowed as it drew abreast of him. He heard someone calling, but it took a real effort to make out the words.

"Hey, kid! Are you okay?"

For the third time that night, Sam answered that question affirmatively. This time, at least, he knew it was a lie.

"That your car back there? You need a ride?"

Suddenly, the prospect of not walking anymore was so appealing - so necessary - that it overrode everything Sam had ever been taught about being wary of strangers.

He sank gratefully into the front seat, finally looking at the car’s owner. He was an older man, older than Sam’s father, with salt and pepper hair.

"I’m Tom."

Sam shook the proffered hand, the motion so ingrained that he didn’t have to think about it. "Sam."

"So, you had a wreck?"

Sam had no idea what the man was talking about. He didn’t reply, but Tom didn’t seem to notice.

"My brother owns a garage. I’ll take you there. He’s got a tow truck - get you fixed up in a jiffy."

Sam nodded when it seemed like a response was required.

Tom gave him an appraising look as the car started to move forward. "You don’t look old enough to drive.”

Sam stared at him, not really sure what Tom meant. "My brother drives," were the only words Sam could think of.

Tom seemed to accept his answer, despite its oddity. He started up a steady stream of one-sided chatter that didn’t end until they had pulled up to a small repair shop.

"This is it. Come on."

Sam followed Tom into the garage, his body on autopilot. He squinted against the over-bright light, seeing a woman standing at a counter with a cup of coffee and a magazine in front of her. His vision wavered for an instant and her face became his mother’s, angelic among the tools and oil stains. Then he blinked and his mother was gone. In her place was a short, round-looking woman. Her graying hair was pulled back in a loose bun, and she peered at him over the top of a pair of half-glasses.

"Margie."

The woman smiled. "Tom! What are you doing here at this hour?"

"Kid’s had a wreck." Tom jerked a thumb at Sam. "We need the tow truck."

"Oh, no! Not another one! Marve just went out. That damned black ice . . . gets ‘em every time." She shook her head, then glanced at the clock. "He only had to go to Glen Road, about four miles out. He shouldn’t be too long."

"Glen Road - by the Hanley’s property?"

"That’s right."

"An Impala?"

"I think that’s what they were talking about."

Tom looked over at Sam. "Sound like your brother’s car, kid?"

Sam blinked, still not quite sure what Tom was talking about. "He drives an Impala."

"Must be him, then. Well, now, that worked out!"

Sam tried to process what Tom and Margie were saying. "So, he’s coming back here? My brother?" Oh, please, let Dean be coming.

"That’s what it sounds like. You just wait here and they’ll be back in no time."

Sam sagged with relief. Dean was on the way. Everything was going to be okay.

"Honey, you look like you’re dead on your feet. I’ve got a couch back here in the office. Why don’t you come and lay down while you wait?" Margie had stepped around the desk and was regarding him with a concerned.

She led the way to a small room with a narrow green couch. "You can rest right here. I’ll go grab you a blanket and you’ll be all set."

Sam was so grateful that he actually felt tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. He quickly blinked them back, thanking the woman for her kindness.

"Aw, honey, it’s no trouble. You just rest, ok? I’ll be right back."

Sam sank onto the hard cushions, curling his long legs to his stomach and pillowing his head on his arm. He was asleep when Margie returned. She smiled at the sleeping teen, gently draping a quilt over his tall frame. She patted him on the shoulder and closed the door behind her as she left.

Dean was trying very hard to rein in his temper. After all, Marve was doing him a favor by keeping his shop open late and driving out to get the car. But as the tow truck crept along, not even hitting the speed limit, Dean had to clench his jaw to keep from yelling at the man to hurry.

"There it is." Dean pointed as they crested a low hill. He winced as he saw the car from this angle. Her right side was crushed against the stone guardrail, front wheel bent at an obscene angle. It wasn’t pretty, but even worse, Dean doubted it would be a cheap fix. Dad’s going to kill me.

Marve maneuvered the tow truck into position and both men got out. Immediately, Dean noticed that something else was wrong. Sam was nowhere to be seen.

He strode to the front door, expecting to see his brother asleep on the front seat. But Sam wasn’t in the car. He scanned the back seat, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. The bags were there, Sam’s coat, the cooler of food they had brought to eat on the way . . . but no Sam.

"Sam? Sam!" Dean cupped his hands around his mouth to amplify the sound. There was no response. The chill air wrapped around him. Where the hell is he?

Dean was worried - and more than a little pissed. He had told Sam to stay with the car. Not only had the boy ignored the order, but he’d left the car unlocked, their stash of weapons available to anyone who might have happened upon it. This was unacceptable. He couldn’t believe Sam had been so careless. It was beyond irresponsible, and Dean could think of no good reason why he would have done it.

Barely containing his frustration, Dean unlocked the trunk and pulled out a flashlight. He leaned low, scanning under the car. Then he started walking, sweeping the beam in front of him.

Marve regarded him with an amused expression. “What’re you looking for?"

"My brother is supposed to be here."

Marve chuckled. "He must’ve gotten antsy. Or cold. He probably walked into town."

Dean ignored him. He scanned the fields that lined the road on both sides carefully, pacing off several hundred yards as Marve started to mount the Impala onto the tow truck.

The beam of the flashlight reflected off the snow-covered grass as he searched for movement, a form, anything. "Sam!"

There was still no answer. Flat, untilled farmland flanked the road, rolling in waves of white out to the horizon. If Sam were there, Dean was sure he'd see him. But there was no sign of him.

The Impala in place, Marve opened the truck’s door and swung up into the front seat. "Told you. He probably got cold and decided to walk. I’d bet on it."

Dean bit back a retort regarding what Marve could do with his bet and climbed in next to him. I’m going to kill him, Dean thought. As soon as I find him, I’m going to kill him. But in the back of his mind, a thought niggled at him. Why would Sam go walking off without his coat?

Sam’s eyes slowly opened. He bit back a groan as the harsh flourescent lights bit into them. He sat up, feeling disoriented and chilled. His head snapped back before he could stop it, his muscles not seeming to want to obey him.

Where am I? The first vestiges of panic set in as he realized he didn’t recognize anything around him. He had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there. Alert for signs of danger, he rose cautiously, scanning the room. Dean and his father were nowhere to be seen.

He took a step and had to put a hand to the wall to steady himself. His head was aching and it was hard to see. What happened to me? Oh, God - are Dean and Dad hurt, too?

Concern for them kept him moving. He raised his hand to push the door open and crept out, eyes and ears straining for some sign of his family. The short hallway was empty, as were the two garage bays it led to. Sam couldn’t hear anything but the faint strains of an oldies station playing on the radio. His heart was in his throat. Where are they? Please, let them be okay!

His hands were clammy and he was shaking. His knees buckled a little as he reached the counter, and he leaned against it heavily. He dropped his head to his hands, but it made the throbbing worse, so he raised it again. Have to keep going. Have to find them. Sam forced himself to keep moving.

Dean could barely sit still. His entire focus was on Sam, and the creative ways his brother was going to make up for so completely shirking his duty. And making me worry about him.

He still couldn’t imagine what could have possibly motivated Sam to be so irresponsible. He supposed their argument could have had something to do with it, and the thought did not make him happy. Sam was skilled at pushing buttons, finding just the right thing to infuriate his father – and lately, even Dean. But this was a new low. He just left the car! No note, no anything. I don’t care how cold it is, he should have stayed put. I’m going to kill him.

Although Dean didn’t say a word, the older man seemed to guess his train of thought. "We’ll find him. Aren’t too many places he could be, in a place this size. And trust me when I say that I know every square inch of this town." Marve smiled. "It’ll be fine."

Dean forced a smile to his own lips, in rare recognition of required politeness. But he again clenched his jaw to keep from saying what he was really thinking.

Marve seemed to respond to the sense of urgency that radiated from Dean and pressed on the gas a little harder on the way back to the garage. As he backed into the first bay, Dean sprang from the truck, already looking for his brother.

A woman appeared in the doorway. She smiled, greeting him as though she knew him. "Well, you made it!"

What is it with these people and the smiling? Dean clenched his jaw harder. "You haven’t seen a kid around here, have you? Fifteen, about six feet tall, brown hair?"

"Sure, I have." Margie’s grin got bigger. "He’s asleep in the back office."

"Asleep in the . . ." Dean rubbed a hand over his strained neck, willing himself to stay calm. "Could you point me in that direction?" Somehow, he managed to keep his voice neutral.

"Of course, hon. Follow me."

As she led the way, Dean forced himself to take deep breaths, trying not to think about the varied and painful ways in which he was going to kick. Sam’s. ass.

She opened the door to the office, but it was empty. A quilt was puddled in one corner of an ancient green couch, and Sam was no longer under it.

Margie’s expression turned to confusion, and a little bit of worry. "I left him here not fifteen minutes ago, and he was sound asleep. Where could he have gone?"

"I’m wondering the same thing." Dean tapped his fists together and started mapping out a plan to find his wayward brother.

Sam was exhausted and dizzy with pain. The ground kept shifting beneath his feet, and he tripped against a crack in the sidewalk. As he stumbled, his vision grayed, and he brought his hands to his head, swaying as he tried to regain his balance. Helpless tears filled his eyes. He couldn’t find Dean or his father. He had no idea where he was or where he was supposed to be. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so sick or so cold. Or so alone.

"I don’t know what to do." He whispered the words into the stillness. There was no reply.

He drew a shuddering breath, wrapping his arms around his middle to try to draw some warmth. There was a bench in front of him, low and metal, and the urge to lie down again could no longer be ignored. He crossed his arms over his chest and huddled his knees to his stomach, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. He closed his eyes, hiding from the ever-increasing ache in his head. He could feel himself sinking, and he didn’t try to fight it.

“Sam! Sam!" Dean was growing hoarse as the minutes ticked by with still no sign of his brother. While Dean was grateful that Margie and Marve were looking too, his patience had been left back on the side of Glen Road. Too much time had passed, and his mood had slipped from annoyed to furious. That, in truth, he was more worried for his brother’s safety than angry at him for disappearing was something Dean chose not to think about.

The cold seeped through his jacket, gripping his skin with icy fingers. What Sam could have possibly been thinking, going out in this weather - without a coat! - was beyond Dean’s comprehension.

He had reached a small park and was scanning the sidewalks and green spaces when he saw it - a figure curled on a bench off one of the side paths. If he’d had any doubts it was Sam, the sight of the familiar too-long hair hanging off the edge of the seat took them away.

Dean released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and was at his brother’s side in an instant. "Get up, Sam!’ He shook his brother roughly and was surprised when there was no response.

"Sam, get up! Now!" He shook him again, harder this time, and Sam moaned.

Startled by the pain evident in the soft sound, Dean knelt beside him, a hand on Sam’s forehead. The boy’s skin was ice cold, but there was a sheen of sweat along his hairline.

"Sammy?" Concern finally overrode Dean’s anger, gentling his hands and his voice. "Sam, open your eyes. Come on, man."

Sam’s eyes fluttered open and he winced. It took him several seconds before he could focus and realize he was looking at his brother. "Dean."

Sam reached out with one hand, closing on his brother’s coat. Dean covered the hand with his own, patting it awkwardly.

"Sammy, what are you doing out here? I’ve been looking everywhere for you."

Sam’s hand tightened reflexively, and Dean could feel the tremors as Sam shivered. "I couldn’t find you." His voice broke a little, and he sounded far younger than his fifteen years.

"I told you I’d be back, remember? Why did you leave the car?" Dean still wasn’t sure what had happened, how Sam had ended up here, in the state he was in. Without a coat. That part finally registered in Dean’s brain. Carefully, he pried Sam’s fingers away and he shrugged his off, placing it over his brother. Sam still hadn’t answered, so Dean prodded again.

"Sam, what happened?"

Sam fought to keep his eyes open. He tried to remember, but the whole night was a blur. All he could remember was cold and pain and the desperate need to find his family. He wanted to explain, so Dean would understand, but the only words he could think of were, "I couldn’t find you."

Silent tears slid down his cheeks and Dean was dumbfounded. Sam never cried – not since he was a baby. It was one of the first lessons they had been taught as children: crying didn’t solve anything. All it ever did was annoy the heck out of their father. They had been masters at stoicism from preschool age on. Things must be pretty bad if Sam was driven to this.

Sam felt Dean’s hand ghosting through his hair in a familiar gesture of comfort, but recoiled, gasping, as Dean’s fingers touched the bruise by his temple.

Dean pulled his hand back abruptly when he saw Sam’s reaction. But he’d felt it – raised flesh above and forward of Sam’s ear – and he sought it again, this time with more care.

"Oh, Sammy." Finally, things were starting to make sense. He must’ve hit his head in the car. Damn it! How did I miss this? A swift, harsh voice answered from his subconscious. Maybe if you hadn’t been so caught up in being mad at him and being in such a hurry to get to Dad . . . maybe if you had watched over him half as carefully as you did that car . . .

He peered more closely at his brother, taking in Sam’s pallor, the shallowness of his breathing, his confused speech, the tears, and was reasonably sure he had a concussion.

"It’s okay. It’s okay. We’re going to get you out of here, alright?" Memories of the evening’s argument, his righteous anger and frustration, his worries about the expense of fixing the car and what their father would say – all vanished in an instant. The only thing that mattered was making sure Sam was safe.

"Here’s the deal, little brother. We’re going to head back to the garage and then we’re going to get you to a hospital."

He started to stand, but Sam stopped him, his hand weakly gripping Dean’s shirt. "Don’t leave me."

Dean’s heart broke a little, hearing that lost, almost panicked whisper. He rested his hand again on Sam’s forehead. "Don’t you worry, Sammy. The only way we go is together."

He closed his hand over Sam’s and gave it a brief squeeze. Sam finally let go. Dean shifted Sam’s feet to the ground and moved his coat to the back of the bench. He pulled Sam’s arm over his own and wrapped his other hand around Sam’s waist, gently lifting him. Sam was upright in seconds, the position change leaving him breathless. Bile rose in his throat and he was sick almost before it registered that he was going to be. He barely felt Dean supporting him, barely heard Dean speaking soothingly as the worst of the nausea passed. Tears sparked his eyes again.

"It’s okay, Sammy. Just breathe. I’ve got you. We’ll just wait a minute." Dean pressed Sam’s head to his shoulder, resting his chin against the soft brown hair. Guilt ate away at him like acid. Sam had been hurt – badly, from the look of things – and he hadn’t even noticed. Hurt and wandering around in the dark in unfamiliar territory, alone. Bad on so many levels.

Sam had no idea how much time had passed, but it hadn’t been enough for him to gather any semblance of energy. It had, however, been long enough for Dean to pull the coat over Sam’s shaking arms. The cold had become a part of him, and even the coat didn’t make him any warmer. But he drew comfort from the familiar scent of his brother as it folded around him. He took an unsteady breath, trying to collect himself. "Is Dad okay?"

Dean glanced at him quizzically. "Dad’s fine. He’s in Colorado. We were going to meet him, remember?"

Sam couldn’t remember, but at least now, he knew his father was safe.

"I was worried." Dean heard the mumbled words and pulled his brother closer to him.

"We’re fine, bro. The only one we need to worry about right now is you. You think you’re ready to stand up now?”

Sam managed a small nod, and although Dean wasn’t convinced he was going to be able to make it, there was really no choice. Sam needed to be inside, and he needed a doctor. He kept his arm wrapped solidly his brother, supporting him as they rose. Sam swayed as the world in front of him careened wildly.

"I’ve got you, Sammy. Just lean on me, okay? Lean on me."

Sam didn’t respond, but he moved with Dean when he started walking. Dean was amazed that Sam was on his feet at all, and he felt a swell of pride for his baby brother.

Now that he thought about it, Sam had always been this way. When faced with a difficult challenge, Sam always rose to the occasion. For all of his complaints and arguing and wishing for a different life, Sam never backed down when it mattered. There was never a moment when he couldn’t be relied upon completely to do what needed to be done.

Maybe that said a lot more about Sam’s commitment to the family than Dean or their father cared to admit. Maybe – just maybe – it was harder to be dedicated when you didn’t believe in the cause than when it was your reason for living. Maybe it was harder when you knew the only two people in your life didn’t understand you and couldn’t (wouldn’t) make the effort to ever see things from your point of view.

And yet – Sam never faltered. He had never let them down, no matter how upset or hurt he was. Even with all he had been through this night, Sam’s only thoughts had been for his father and brother’s safety. Dean felt more than a little shame acknowledging to himself that he had obviously not placed the same importance on Sam’s.

The brother in question stumbled, his meager strength waning. Dean barely kept them both from falling. They were still several blocks from the garage, and Dean was weighing the merits of leaving Sam to go get a vehicle when a familiar truck rounded the corner.

Marve eased over to the curb and leapt from the cab. "Looks like you found him. He okay?"

Dean shook his head, grateful for the assistance when Marve slipped his shoulder under Sam’s other arm. "He needs a hospital."

He didn’t have to say anything else. Within minutes, they were on their way. Dean cradled Sam against him, allowing the boy to rest as they drove. He roused him periodically, not willing to let Sam fall asleep. Marve turned the heat on full blast, but Sam still shivered. Dean kept his arms around him, trying to lend him warmth.

The county hospital was blessedly close, and even better, blessedly empty. Sam was taken in immediately, with Dean permitted to stay with him as he was examined. The diagnosis of a concussion and mild hypothermia was inevitable.

Dean waited until Sam was settled in a room before calling their father. He left a voicemail explaining what had happened and where they could be reached before returning to Sam’s side.

Sam looked drawn and pale. A warm saline IV was attached to his arm, and there was an oxygen tube hooked under his nose to help ease the pain of his headache. His eyes were the barest of slits, but he seemed to recognize his brother as Dean stood over him.

"Hey, kiddo. How you doing?"

Sam reached out an unsteady hand rather than answering, squeezing slightly as Dean grasped it. His eyes slid closed as Dean squeezed back, finding more comfort in the touch than any words that could have been spoken. Dean was here and safe. For Sam, that was all that mattered.

Dean hooked a foot around a chair, pulling it over to the bed and sitting without breaking contact with his brother. "You rest, Sam. I’m here. Everything’s going to be okay."

Sam drifted to sleep, but Dean continued to hold his hand. He could feel the strength in it, that quiet strength of Sam’s that Dean was only just beginning to appreciate. He still didn’t understand his brother – probably never really would – but he was starting to think it would be worth the effort to try a little harder.

I love you, little brother. He wouldn’t say the words out loud. It just wasn’t what they did. But he thought, somehow, that Sam understood.