Summary:  Sam, John, and Dean are on a routine hunt for a banshee. Nothing can go wrong right? Yeah and I'm the easter bunny... Like my fluffly ears?
FYI:  This takes place about a year after the end of, ‘Breath,’ and Sammy is eighteen.
A/N:  Here is the follow up story to, ‘Breath.’ I am so sorry that it took me so long to post it, but I got to writing it, and then it started to just flow...
Disclaimer:  As usual, I own nothing but the plot, and I make no money from this story, I only please my sadistic muses and loyal readers, any and all payments come in reviews and cyber thanks.

“I’m fine, Dean!” Sam told his brother exasperatedly. “It’s just a bad sprain, nothing to worry about!”

Dean looked at him incredulously. “Just a ’bad sprain,’ Sammy? I heard it snap from over there!”

“Yeah well, even so, we need to keep going on this hunt Dean. People are dying, and more will die, if we don’t take down this banshee.” Sam’s voice was filled with exhorting honesty, praying that his brother would see things his way.

Dean looked at him for a minute before grudgingly saying, “Fine, but we need to splint your arm before she does anymore damage to it. God that was a harsh landing little brother.”

Sam sighed before nodding to his brother, knowing that the older man was right, but not wanting to admit it. Dean set his pack on the ground, and rummaged through it looking for the first aid kit, and when he found that, he dug through it for the thin metal strips they kept for emergencies, the medical tape, and a couple wraps of ace bandages.

Dean told Sam to sit down and hold out his arm, and Sam followed the orders hesitantly. Sitting down on the ground, and held out his arm to his brother. He winced at the pull of the muscles as he straightened the limb, and knew that despite his protests, it was bad.

His wrist was swollen and angry looking. The unnatural angle of the bone made Sam want to throw up, and the black and purple that marked the break and the area around it, made his wrist look all the worse.

“Here,” Dean said, holding out a worn metal bar, wrapped in cloth. Sam nodded, knowing that Dean was going to have to set the bone, and that it was going to hurt like a son of a bitch.

Sam stuck the bar in his mouth, and placed his good hand on the ground beside him, needing something that would ground him through the pain. Dean placed a hand on either side of the break, and Sam readied himself, knowing that when Dean pulled, he was going to scream.

Dean pulled, and Sam screamed into the bar, his vision turning fuzzy. Black spots filled his sight, as Dean moved the bone into alignment, and Sam screamed again, weaker this time. He barely felt Dean placing the metal bars around his arm, or taping them in place, the pain from before effectively numbing the hurt that still assailed his body.

He came out of his pain-induced haziness as Dean was wrapping the second ace wrap around his wrist. His wrist throbbed in pain with every heartbeat, and Sam was surprised to find himself sweating, with a few stray tears running down his cheeks. They had come unexpectedly, and he had never felt them run down his face through the pain.

As Dean finished wrapping the last bandage, he looked up at Sam, and his heart clenched at the pain his little brother was in. He had sworn after the truck had hit Sam the year before, that he wouldn’t let anyone, or anything hurt his brother again, and he had failed. Sweat ran down his pain filled face, and Dean grimaced.

“Okay, little brother?” Dean asked, concern lining his tone.

“M’good.” Sam answered, as he pulled the bar out of his mouth, trying to get his bearings.

“C’mon, we better get moving,” Dean said as he stood and held out his hand to his brother. He hated to make his brother move, but they needed to get rid of the banshee as soon as possible, and then Sam needed to get to the hospital, so they could check the break, and hopefully give his brother something for pain.

Sam grasped the offered hand, and let Dean help him up, as he cradled his broken wrist to his chest. Once up, Sam leaned against his brother for a few minutes, trying to stave off the nausea and dizziness. When he felt better, Sam moved away from his brother, and bent to pick up his pack, slowly.

Swinging the pack over his shoulder, Sam waited for his brother to do the same. Dean stuffed the first aid kit back in his pack, and drew the pack over his shoulder, just as Sam had done minutes earlier.

“Ready?” Dean asked, making sure that his brother was okay to continue the hunt. Sam nodded, and picked up his sawed off shotgun, ready to take down the banshee, should it get too close, or if it hurt Dean.

Their father had gone in the house to look for clues as to who the banshee had been, and how to destroy it. He had felt that it was better to split up so more ground could be covered, and he had thought that his boys would be safer outside the house.

He was wrong.

Sam had been hurt by the banshee, even though they had been outside, and now Dean figured that since they were no safer outside than in, that they ought to go inside and see if there was anything that they could do to help their father.

Dean walked up the rickety steps of the early nineteenth century mansion, shotgun at the ready. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed their father’s number, to tell him what had gone on, that they were coming in, and to ‘for the love of god, make sure it was the banshee, before he shot at anything.’

Sam followed his brother up the steps of the mansion, his own gun at the ready, as he searched for any signs that the banshee might be near. He shut off as much of the pain from his wrist as he could, and focused on the hunt at hand, wanting to kill the banshee and get it over with.

Dean signaled for him to stop, and hold watch behind them, and Sam nodded, turning with his gun held steadily in front of him. He heard Dean move behind him, and then he heard the tell tale sounds of his father’s boots on the wood floor, and he turned to look at them for a second, before turning back to keeping watch.

The split second was all the banshee needed, and she swept at the three Winchesters before any of them had a chance. Sam’s eyes widened as she flew straight at him, and he fired...

Once...

Twice...

She kept coming at him, and before Sam knew what had hit him, she had a hold of his shoulders, her long nails piercing through his shirt, and into his flesh. The gun flew from his hands as she lifted him from the ground, and threw him easily into the wall.

The boards cracked behind him as Sam hit, and he cried out as his wrist hit the wall. He fell to the floor, blinking as the darkness filled his vision. He saw his father running to him, but could do nothing to placate his father as the darkness consumed him.

Dean watched Sam as he slammed into the wall, and the cry that was torn from his little brother’s throat was enough to break his heart. As Sam fell, John ran to him, and though Dean wanted to go to him too, he knew he had to finish the ritual to get rid of the banshee.

The task of saying the Latin ritual became so much harder when he saw Sam’s eyes roll to the side, and then back into his head as consciousness fled from him. His dad knelt by Sam and laid him down, and as he was checking his wounds, John yelled at him to finish the ritual.

“Missum haec bestia sustuli de haec hinc.” Dean started, his focus divided between the written words of the ritual in his father’s journal, and Sam lying motionless on the floor.

Taking a deep breath he continued. “Abutor sua purus en tempus ac tractus-” Dean started to say the last line of the ritual when an unearthly shriek sent him to his knees. Dean dropped the book and covered his ears.

The windows of the old mansion blew out, and Dean lifted his arms so they were covering his head, while still making sure to keep his ears covered. He looked over to where Sam and his father were, to see that Sam was conscious again, but his face was scrunched in pain, and though he tried to cover his ears, the splint on his right wrist prevented him from doing so.

His father wrapped one arm around his own head, covering both ears, and used his other one to pull Sam to him, and cover his youngest’ ears as well. Sam groaned in pain as he was pulled to his father’s chest, but at least he had his ears covered and the sound of the banshee’s wail was drowned out.

Dean forced himself to focus his attention on his father’s journal to read the rest of the ritual. “Purus sua animus, aboleo fas, permissum transeo valde didtum.” The banshee let out a final piercing wail, and combusted in on itself.

As soon as Dean could see again through the dust that now coated the room, he ran to his brother’s side, trying to see what damage had been done to his already injured little brother.

John still held Sammy securely in his arms, and Dean had to tell his father to put Sam down before the man even realized what he had been doing. The look of shock on his father’s face would have been funny, had it not been for the dyer situation the three were in.

Sam groaned as he back hit the floor. No matter how gentle the impact had been, it had still been painful to his battered back. He closed his eyes in pain, trying to force the thought of it out of his mind. If he didn’t think about it, it was bearable.

Sam grit his teeth and opened his eyes, and found himself looking into the two very concerned pairs that belonged to his father and brother. “Wha’ happened?” He asked, though he had a pretty good idea of what had happened outside with Dean, all he remembered about being inside was the banshee flying at him.

“You don’t remember?” Dean asked incredulously, as if it were blatantly obvious what had been going on, and couldn’t figure out how Sam could possibly forget.

“Not really… It’s kinda fuzzy.” Sam answered, knowing from the looks that his father and brother were giving him, that the answer was scaring them.

“The banshee got you Sammy. Threw you pretty hard into the wall.” His father answered, leaving no room for the sarcastic remark that had been on the tip of Dean’s tongue.

“Oh…” The confusion was evident in Sam’s tone, and it scared both Dean and his father. Since the incident with the truck the year before, both had been overly careful about Sam and head injuries.

It had been a close call, too close for Dean and John’s liking. Sam had been in a coma for almost a month; and though Sam had been getting better, it still scared the two older Winchesters whenever Sam got a bad headache, or took a hard fall from any height.

“C’mon Sammy, we should get you to the hospital. Get your head checked out, and your arm set and in a cast.” Sam nodded, wincing at the stupid movement. He had hoped that his father and Dean hadn’t seen, but it seemed that luck wasn’t on his side that day, and both had seen the grimace.

“You okay?” Concern laced his father’s tone.

“M’good. Just a little sore.” Both of the older Winchester’s knew the youngest’ answer was a blatant lie, but neither called him on it, opting to get him the ER and let the doctors and nurses decide.

John helped Sam into a sitting position, while Dean stood, and got ready to take on his brother’s weight. Pulling one of Sam’s arms over his shoulder, and placing his arm around Sam’s waist, Dean pulled Sam into an upright position, while his father grabbed his and Sam’s packs.

Dean led Sam out the door, and down the steps, wincing at every moan or groan of pain that Sam emitted. He knew that he was hurting his little brother, by making him stand and walk, but pain was better than sleep with the possibility of a concussion, especially after the head trauma Sam had suffered the previous year.

Dean helped Sam to the Impala, and then carefully lowered him into the seat, before walking around the car, and sliding in to the front passenger’s seat. He put the keys in the ignition, and turned the car on, needing to be ready for when John got in the car.

His father slid into the driver’s seat, and after buckling himself up, he pulled the car out of the driveway and onto the road, trying hard not to break the speed limit, with his youngest son in the back of the car and in pain.

He looked in the rearview mirror every couple of minutes, and tried to keep his thoughts on the road, as Dean talked to Sam to keep him awake. “Dad?” He heard Dean ask.

“What?”

“Go faster!” His oldest son yelled, the fear and concern in the voice told him not to ask questions. Pushing the gas pedal down harder, he looked back and saw why Dean was afraid.

Sam’s eyes were closed, and he was inert in the back seat…

A/N:  Okay here's the rough translation... if I got it wrong please tell me...
Send this beast away from this place. Make her free in time and space. Free her spirit, do it now, let her cross the great divide. – Missum haec bestia sustuli de haec hinc. Abutor sua purus en tempus ac tractus. Purus sua animus, aboleo fas, permissum transeo valde didtum.

“We need help here!” Dean yelled as he carried Sam in through the ER doors. The attempts to rouse the youngest Winchester in the car hadn’t worked, and Dean was getting anxious.

“What happened here?” A man in deep green scrubs asked as he walked up to the trio.

“He fell out of a tree in the woods, and he was doing just fine until we got him in the car. As soon as we started driving he slipped unconscious, and we haven’t been able to wake him since.” John lied easily. The man nodded, and yelled at a nearby nurse to get a stretcher.

“Lay him down gently.” Dean lowered Sam onto the stretcher, mindful of his wrist and his head. “What’s his medical history?” The man asked as soon as Sam was situated.

“He was in a coma for a month last year, with major head trauma, after being hit by a truck.” John told the man, frustration and fear shining through his voice.

“Sandy?” The man called, looking over his shoulder, away from John and Dean. When a short woman looked up, a perky little smile on her face that made John groan.

“Yes, doctor?” She asked, a fake frown now marring her features.

“Call down to MRI and tell them that we have a patient coming down that needs to be seen immediately. Tell them that he has had major head trauma in the past.” The man said, his voice calm and smooth, but the nurse nodded, scurrying away as fast as she could, knowing that she had no choice in the matter.

“Okay, I need you two to go sit in the waiting room, while he is being transferred into a hospital gown.” The doctor said, nodding to two women standing behind him to go do as he had said.

The man followed John and Dean into the waiting room, needing information on his patient before he did anything. “Okay, I need his name, age, and any medical information you have on him that could help us.”

“His name is Sam Winchester, he’s eighteen, and he isn’t allergic to any medications that we know of. As you know he had the head trauma last year. Along with that, he has also broken his wrist before, so it might be a complicated break.” John said, and Dean felt déjà vu sweep over him.

‘“Blunt trauma to the head,” one of the medics reported as the other checked Sam’s gag reflex. Finding no resistance, a tube was inserted into Sam’s mouth and pushed down his throat. The medic then attached a translucent blue bag to the tube, and squeezed it methodically, to give Sam air.

“Pupils are uneven and have a sluggish response, we’re looking at a severe concussion and possible brain damage. This kid needs to get to the hospital fast.” As the medic finished talking, he wrapped a neck brace around Sam’s neck, and then transferred him from the asphalt to a backboard.

Sam was strapped onto a stretcher and then loaded into the back of the waiting ambulance. When Dean went to follow, one of the paramedics put his hand up, stopping him.

“I’m sorry sir, but you are going to have to follow us to the hospital, there isn’t enough room in the back of the ambulance for you to ride, while we work.” Dean reluctantly nodded.

As Dean started to walk away, the paramedic stopped him once again. “Sir before we leave, can you tell us his name, age, and if he is allergic to any medications?”

“Sam Winchester, he’s seventeen, and he’s not allergic to anything that we know of.” The medic nodded and hopped into the back of the ambulance, as he thanked Dean for the information.’

Dean shivered as he remembered what had happened with Sam just the year before. He remembered the fear he had felt as the medics had asked him questions about Sam, the way Sam had just lain there motionless, so very, very... still.

“Dean?” He heard his father’s voice break through his reverie. He sounded concerned, and Dean idly wondered how many times he had called him before Dean had actually responded to him.

“Yeah?”

“C’mon son, let’s sit down.” John said softly, still eying his eldest son with concern.

Dean followed the man without comment, sitting down in the chair his father indicated; all the while thinking back to what had happened the last time they had been sitting in the waiting room like this.

“You okay?” His father asked, worry clear in his tone.

“Yeah, I’m okay, just remembering what happened before.” Dean answered quietly, knowing that his father knew exactly what he was talking about.

“M-hmm, it is kind of hard not to think about it, isn’t it?” John asked, the familiar glaze of memory shining in his old eyes.

“Yes.” His answer was simple, but the emotions hidden behind it were anything but simple.

“Guess we’re in for a long wait, huh?” John asked rhetorically.

“Guess so.” A deep sigh was the only thing that accompanied his answer, and Dean felt his heart clench for the umpteenth time that day. He knew his father was hurting and just as afraid as he was for Sammy, but he couldn’t help caring about his own emotions more at the momet.

An hour later and Dean was getting anxious for his brother, while his father dozed lightly in the chair next to him. He knew his father hadn’t been getting a lot of sleep lately, and while he was happy that the man was actually getting some sleep, Dean couldn’t help but wonder how he was accomplishing such a feat while Sam was only God knows where in the hospital.

He ground his teeth together in frustration, the old habit coming back to him. It was something that kept him calm in times of stress, times that Sammy was hurt... times like these.

“Dean,” a drowsy voice said next to him and he jumped. Turning to look at his father, he saw that though he was awake, it was just barely. “Stop.” Dean looked at him in confusion, wondering how the man could know that he had been grinding his teeth, when he had so obviously been asleep the moment before. “You’re gonna break a tooth, or give me a headache... Neither option is a good one, so stop.” With that John closed his eyes, and Dean looked at him incredulously.

“Stop staring.” The voice startled him again. ‘How the hell did he do that?’ Dean asked himself. The man’s eyes had been closed, Dean knew that for a fact, he had been looking straight at him when he had spoken.

Deciding that he would leave the matter for a later time, Dean turned back to the clock that was hooked up on the wall in front of him. He counted the seconds in time with the hand on the clock, hoping that the doctor would come back out to talk to them soon. ‘What is taking them so long?’ Dean asked himself.

‘Unless... unless Sammy is hurt really badly.’

By the time John had fully woken, half an hour later, Dean had worked himself into a deep worry. Thinking about the different possibilities of what had happened to Sam, and how badly he was really injured was driving Dean insane. The fact that the doctor hadn’t come back out yet, wasn’t helping matters at all.

It was another fifteen minutes of constant worry, more so for Dean who had been thinking of all the bad things that could have happened to Dean since they had gotten to the hospital; before they heard echoing footsteps coming down the hall.

The doctor from earlier walked straight at them, his face haggard looking. Dean didn’t like the expression that he wore either.

‘Had he been right? Was something really wrong with Sammy?’

The man opened his mouth to speak, and Dean dreaded his words...

“Family of Samuel Winchester?” The man asked, and both Dean and John stood, anxious to hear what he had to say about the youngest member of their family.

“John his father, and Dean his brother;” John answered, putting a comforting hand on Dean’s shoulder, and looking the doctor in the eye.

“Well, I am happy to tell you that Samuel is doing just fine. Yes, he took a hit to the head and was unconscious for a while; but with everything that your son has gone through in the past year, he is doing extremely well. He had a bad break in his arm, but we’ve put a cast on it, and he should be good in about four to five weeks. Other than that, he had some bumps and bruises and a pretty good knock to the head that gave him a slight concussion, but nothing serious.” The aged doctor smiled at them, and Dean felt relief surge through him.

After a moment, another thought made him frown, “But wait,” he said, his frown deepening, “If Sammy’s okay, then why were you so, for lack of a better word, depressed when you came into the room?” Dean asked, worry filling him once again as he wondered if the doctor was telling him the truth.

“That I’m afraid is another case that I was working on. We lost a little girl a few minutes ago.” The man replied sadly, and Dean nodded, guilt and relief filling him once again. Guilt for the fact that he felt relief that it was the little girl, and not his brother who had died.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” John’s lips thinned to a narrow line, and his forehead creased, as if thinking that Sammy could have been the child that had died today. The older man looked as if he had felt the way that Dean had when he heard about the little girl, guilty and relieved at the same time.

“Yes, it’s always horrible when a life is lost so young,” the doctor replied sadly, and both Winchester’s nodded.

“When can we see Sammy?” Dean asked after a moment, anxious to see his little brother, even though he was loathe to break the doctor from his stupor.

“I can take you to his room now,” the doctor answered, a genuine smile filling his face as he thought about the youngest Winchester. “We want to keep him overnight for observations, but barring any complications he should be able to be discharged first thing in the morning.”

“That’s good news,” John said, his lips quirking up in a smile.

‘Yeah that is really good news,’ Dean thought to himself with a smile, ‘for both my piece of mind, and Sammy’s ADD…’ Dean almost chuckled at the thought, but opted for following his father and Sam’s doctor to his brother’s room.

“Thank you so much for helping my son, Dr.-“ John started, but came up short when he got to the man’s name, remembering that he had never actually gotten the doctor’s name.

“Miles,” The man answered, sticking his hand out to shake John’s.

“Thank you Dr. Miles,” John said again, and shook the offered hand, a grateful smile on his face.

“It was no problem, I’m just glad that I was able to help,” Dr. Miles answered, a small sad look passing over him before he shook it off and smiled at the Winchester’s once again. “I hope that boy of yours gets better real soon,” he said and walked away, as John nodded.

Dean turned around and entered the room. He walked over to his brother and sat down, just content with staring at his Sammy. Sam seeming to sense that Dean was there, turned towards his brother, and cracked open bleary eyes.

“Mm, wha’ happened?” Sam asked, as he reached out to Dean.

Dean caught Sam’s outstretched hand and smiled gently at his little brother. “You got whooped pretty good by a Banshee Sammy,” Dean answered, and Sam nodded after a moment.

“It’s Sam, and oh yeah I remember now.” Dean snorted at Sam’s answer, and squeezed his hand a little tighter.

“You’ll always be Sammy to me,” Dean told him, and it was Sam’s turn to snort, obviously knowing that Dean was right, and that ‘Sammy,’ was going to be something that stuck with him forever.

“M’not twelve, jerk,” Sam growled playfully.

“No, but you’re still Sammy, bitch.” Dean growled back.

John smirked at both of his sons, and their weird ways, hoping that neither of them would ever change; and praying for the likes of anyone or anything that tried to stand in the way of their bond.

“Boys,” John said, his voice low, “quit it.” He finished when they both looked up at him.

“Yes sir,” the unified reply came, and John smiled.

May they never change, he thought, and god help anything that stands in our way…

End