Good Little Soldier

Disclaimers: Don't own 'em… only borrow 'em.

Synopsis: Pre-Series

Dean's left in charge while Dad's on a hunt and things take a turn for the worse…

Dean emptied the crumbs from the bottom of the Frosted Flakes box into a bowl and glanced up at the clock. 10:38 Dad should've been home hours ago. Just a poltergeist, after all. He willed himself be calm, a skill that at nine years old he was already eerily good at. He placed a hand on the refrigerator door and paused as a soft sound caught his attention.

He tilted his head, listening. There it was again. Immediately his attention shifted to the pull out couch where his brother lay sleeping. He set his bowl down on the counter and crossed the room purposefully.

Five year old Sam lay tangled in the sheets, his hair damp with perspiration. His head moved from side to side and he moaned softly in his sleep. Nightmare, Dean thought and leaned over to place a comforting hand on his brother's forehead. He drew his hand back sharply; heat radiated from Sam's skin. He's burning up. Dean unwound the sheets from Sam's body and laid the back of his hand against his forehead. Mom used to do this when I was sick, he remembered, the familiar ache twisting his gut and knocking him temporarily off balance. He could feel the fever even before his skin connected with his brother's. So hot, Sammy.

Dean stole another look at the clock on the apartment wall. 10:46. Where was Dad anyways? He'd know what to do. He shoved down a bubble of panic that threatened to rise up in his throat. Think, Dean, think.

He furrowed his brow as he took in the sight of Sam, flushed and listless. "Sammy," he whispered and shook his brother's shoulder gently. He knew he should probably let him rest but he just had to see his brother's eyes and know if he was alright. Sam tossed his head slowly from side to side and murmured but his eyes remained closed. Dean tried again to rouse him and this time Sam opened his eyes and blinked twice before his heavy lids dropped down again.

Dean frowned at the glassy look in his brother's eyes. He knew instinctively that if he didn't get the fever lowered soon Sam would be in trouble. An image of Dad hurt somewhere on a hunt gone bad mingled with the picture of Sam laying like a rag doll before him. "Be right back, Sammy. Just hang on."

He rushed to the bathroom and pulled open a drawer, searching frantically through the mess of toothpaste, combs and Q-Tips. Not there. Leaving the first drawer ajar he slung open another drawer and pawed through the contents. Where is it? Dean took a long, deep breath and centered himself the way Dad had taught him to do in times of stress or danger. His gaze scanned the countertop and moved up to the vanity mirror.

The look on his own face startled him for a moment. He hardly recognized the terrified kid in the mirror. That's it…the mirror! Reaching up he flipped open the mirror to reveal a medicine cabinet. He grabbed the thermometer and a bottle of baby aspirin and tore out of the bathroom like an evil spirit was behind him.

He knelt beside his brother and shook the thermometer the way he'd seen his Dad do. He began stripping off Sam's pajamas, wincing at the heat rising off the tiny body. As he pulled Sam's shirt over his head the younger boy whimpered and Dean felt something tighten in his chest. He struggled with his brother's already gangly limbs, now limp and heavy in his hands. He stole another glance at the clock, fear raking the back of his brain. 11:04. Something's wrong. Dad should be back. Please come back, Daddy. I need you.

Dean straightened his spine and pressed his fingertips to the bridge of his nose. He slid the thermometer under Sam's arm and watched with growing concern as the mercury rose. Finally it stopped climbing and Dean held the thermometer up and squinted as he made out the numbers on the glass. 103? Jesus, Sammy. Too hot.

Dean strode purposefully over to the kitchenette and lifted a glass off the drying rack. Keeping Sam in his line of sight the whole time, he filled the glass with cool tap water and returned to his brother's side. He reached for the bottle of baby aspirin and turned it around to read the directions. His eyes felt dry, his vision blurred with panic. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly. His lips moved silently as he read the label on the bottle. Hands shaking, he unscrewed the cap and tapped out a tiny orange pill.

"Here, Sammy. Open up," he spoke softly, prying open his brother's mouth carefully and placing the aspirin on his tongue. He held the glass of water to Sam's lips and tipped it back, supporting the back of Sam's head with his other hand. Sam sputtered once before the water slid down his throat, taking the medicine with it.

Dean laid Sam's head gently onto his pillow and brushed back a lock of shaggy brown hair. He watched the shallow rise and fall of his brother's chest and unconsciously mimicked the pace with his own breath. Dean realized Sam still looked like a baby when he was sleeping, his features softened and plumped in repose.

"You're gonna' be okay, little dude. I promise I won't let anything bad happen to you." He stroked Sam's cheek and felt hot tears threaten to spill from his eyes. You're the man of the house while I'm gone, Dean. Take care of your brother. His father's final words as he left for every hunt echoed in Dean's mind. I'm trying, Daddy, I'm trying.

Dean snuck another look at the clock. 11:25. Where are you, Dad? I can't do this by myself. Dean felt fear, sharp as a razor at the base of his spine. The thought of the only two people in his life both being in danger at once… It was just too much.

Whenever I love someone bad things happen to them. First mom, now Dad and Sammy. Fatigue and panic gnawed at him and he stood and paced to keep himself alert. His thoughts churned in a sea of fear and confusion. Something's wrong or Dad would be back. What if he's hurt? What if he's alone? Dean felt his reserve cracking. Gotta' keep it together. Sammy needs me.

Dean sat beside Sam and leaned down, pressing his lips to his brother's temple. The heat penetrated his mouth and he fought a wave of terror that threatened to tow him under. What else? What else could help? Dean scanned the room, searching for something, anything. His gaze stopped on the bathroom door. A bath? Maybe…

As he thought it over he felt something hit his side and looked down to find Sam's arm flailing violently. What the…? Suddenly Sam's entire body was jerking, wracked with spasms that nearly propelled him off the edge of the makeshift bed. Dean watched in horror as his baby brother's tiny frame moved spastically, as if some demented puppet master was pulling invisible strings attached to his limbs. "Sammy!" Dean tried to hold Sam down, his gut clenching, his mouth dry. "Sammy! Can you hear me?" Oh, God! He can't die! He has to be alright! I'm supposed to take care of him! No, this can't be happening…

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the seizure ended. Sam was still, his body drained of the force that had animated it just seconds before. Dean immediately checked his pulse and held a hand in front of his nose to be sure he was breathing. He realized he'd been holding his breath and let it out in a loud whoosh of air. What the hell was that?

Dean wiped his eyes with his knuckles and sniffed. The thought of Sammy… He couldn't even allow himself process the idea. He held his brother's face in his hands and bit his lower lip, afraid if he made any sound it would erupt into a wail that he wouldn't be able to stop. Sammy, oh, Sammy. Where's Dad? I need you both. Come back to me. Dean shook his head and placed a palm on Sam's head again. His hand burned at the touch. Got to get this fever down.

He maneuvered himself so that both his hands were under Sam's body, one below his shoulders and one beneath his knees. Grunting with exertion he scooped his brother up off the couch bed and staggered slowly towards the bathroom. His legs shook with effort and his arms burned with the heat of Sam's skin and the strain of holding him up. After what felt like an eternity he reached the bathtub and lowered Sam gingerly onto the floor next to it before turning on the faucet. When he had the temperature where he thought it should be he pulled up on the drain plug and gently placed his brother into the tub.

Sam's head lolled to one side and his eyes remained closed even as the cool water rose over his legs. Dean reached for a bath towel and folded it so that it formed a makeshift pillow, then carefully placed it behind his brother's head. When the water reached Sam's chest Dean turned off the tap and scooted back so that he was facing the tub, pulling his knees to his chest. His intense hazel gaze focused on his brother's face as he attempted to will the fever away. This has to work. It just has to. I can't lose… I can't lose Sammy. He's my responsibility. I'm the big brother and it's my job to keep him safe. He has to be alright.

Dean leaned over and craned his neck as he checked the clock yet again. Midnight. Over twenty minutes had passed since he'd placed Sam in the bath. Dad… Where are you? What's happening?

Suddenly Sam's head straightened and his eyes opened under droopy lids. Dean shot forward, hands gripping the edge of the tub. "Sammy! Sammy, you alright, little dude?"

Sam turned slowly, licked his parched lips and tried to speak. His voice croaked and he swallowed several times before looking directly at Dean and saying, "M'alright."

Dean leaned over and placed a trembling hand to Sam's forehead, bracing himself for the heat he fully expected. Instead he felt nothing. It's over. The fever's broken. I did it… I kept Sammy safe.

"M'cold," Sam said. Dean lifted him gently from the water and wrapped him in a terrycloth cocoon. He enveloped Sam in his arms and began to shiver. "You cold, too, Dean?" Sam queried.

Dean felt no chill but quickly answered, "Yeah. I must be cold, buddy." He helped Sam back into the living room and lowered him into a chair before ripping the sickbed sheets from the pullout couch and replacing them with a blanket. "You should get some sleep, little dude. It's been a long night."

"But I just woke up," Sam said, hiding a yawn with his hand. Then exhaustion seemed to settle over him and he curled up on the couch bed. Dean petted his head and whispered words of comfort in his ear until his breath came slowly and evenly and sleep overtook him.

Dean lay beside his brother, unwilling to leave his side after experiencing the fear of losing him. Can't stop shaking… He felt moisture on his cheek, wiping away the tears without even realizing he'd been shedding them. Thank God Sammy's alright. I don't know what I would've done… He wrapped his arms around himself, seeking comfort from the only source available. Then he jerked his head up and pierced the clock with his gaze. Almost one o'clock. Where is he? Please let him be alright…

As if on cue, the door swung open and John Winchester staggered into view. He leaned on the doorframe and grimaced as he pressed a hand to the jagged cut that bisected his forearm. Blood seeped through the front of his shirt and dark bruises had already formed on his face and neck.

Adrenaline trumped exhaustion as Dean leapt up and met his father at the door. "Dad! You alright?" He shifted so he was positioned under John's arm and put a hand out to steady his father. "I got ya, Dad. I got ya."

"Dean, your brother asleep?" John asked in a low voice laced with pain.

"He's fine, Dad. Everything's fine. I got it," Dean answered, the good little soldier briefing his general. "Lean on me, Dad. I'll take care of you."