Disclaimer: Don't own

Tag for Everybody Loves a Clown, season two.

A warm breeze wisped throughout the yard, a whistling sound filling the air as the gentle wind passed between the columns of crushed and rusted cars that were planted into the soil. Dean sat on the ground, leaning against the Impala, as the sun descended below the South Dakotan landscape. Eyeballing the crowbar laying at his boots, he ran his knuckles gently across the Impala's bumper. The touch was an act of stoic remorse. It had been hours since he had let loose his rage and pent up emotional distress, one of Bobby's junked cars and his own baby having been caught in the crossfire. Shutting his eyes and letting out a strange half sigh, half growl, he dropped the hand that was caressing the Impala onto his lap. Both of his arms burned, the muscles abused from wielding metal against metal in an ultimately futile attempt to ease psychological pain by means of catharsis. But the burn vibrating through his sinews paled in comparison to the heat he had felt on his neck when his father had departed his final words onto him.

The skin on Dean's hands stretched against his knuckles as he fisted his fingers into the denim of his jeans. There was a war inside of him that he could not handle. His father had been his hero, a man he looked up to and respected. The man had seemed immortal, only for his final breath to spill against the clean, polished tile of an ordinary, nondescript hospital. Dean was not stupid, but he did not need to break a sweat in order to realize that his father had lost his life at the hands of The Demon: with his miraculous recovery coupled with the sudden disappearance of the colt, John's death had the word "deal" written— in bold—all over it. Trading a life for a life was dark business, but the fact that it was Dean's own life that had been traded rendered the older sibling's psyche unbearably broken and hollow.

But his father had left him with an unwanted parting gift: an ultimatum and prophesy tied into one foreboding reality that rocked Dean's core.

"Dean, you watch out for your brother. Take care of him. You need to save him, son; nothing else matters. Dean. I'm sorry, but if you can't save him, you have to kill him."

Save Sam, or kill him in the face of failure.

A knot twisted Dean's gut, cramping his lower abdomen. Never, since the night of his mother's death, had his life been so uncertain, burdened with so many questions and uncertainties. His father had told him to save his brother, but failed to mention the force that threatened to ensnare the kid, although the threat practically wore The Demon's name tag. After all, Mary's killer had been the bane of the Winchester's existence for as long as Dean could remember, and the visions that tormented Sam were somehow connected to the creature. But John's last words still did not make sense to the now-eldest Winchester: how failing to protect Sam could necessitate the older brother to kill his baby brother defied reason. The prospect that he would fail to protect his brother was disturbing, but killing Sam was literally unthinkable. Add to that mess a younger brother— ignorant of the situation—who, after spending his life butting heads with their father, was now trying to make amends with the man who had practically issued his death sentence. The result was a junked car with a broken window and the Impala with a torn trunk.

Dean was scared and hurting.

But so was Sam.

Sam had not yet left Bobby's yard when Dean had pummeled the Impala. The eldest son had been so wrapped up in the pent up and conflicting anger and despair exploding inside of him that he had not noticed that Sam had been watching him. But when his arms had tired and the psychological pain had overwhelmed him to the point of dropping the crowbar and turning from the Impala in self disgust, his eyes had locked onto those of his brother.

Sam stood there, feet from the backdoor to Bobby's house, leveling a gaze at him that, to any stranger, would have seemed stoic and unreadable. But unlike an outsider, Dean was able to pick up on the slightly pinched skin around the corners of his brother's eyes; he could see that Sam was, almost imperceptibly, biting a small amount of his lower lip. Dean had dealt with Sam since the younger sibling was too helpless to even walk: he knew Sam well enough to recognize his kid brother's scared face even if said brother was trying to hide the fact that he was shocked. Both men had stood in silence, staring at the other. Sam had been the first to move, but he had not broken the silence. Instead, he had simply turned and disappeared into Bobby's house, the creak of the wooden door the only sound signaling Sam's exit from Dean's presence.

That had been hours ago, and the guilt that was worming its way through Dean's skin had increased, along with the pressure stretching his bladder. It was time for him to go inside. Dean knew he was being an ass, but he did not know if he would be able to confront his brother, not when he did not know how to deal with his father's death, not to mention John's final order.

Signing, Dean landed one last gentle and apologetic pat onto the Impala's bumper and headed toward Bobby's house.

The rooms were dark, but Dean knew his way around the place well enough that he could find his way to the bathroom without needing to turn on a light. After emptying his bladder, Dean made his way to Bobby's living room, already knowing that he would find Sam on the couch, a pile of books he had taken from Bobby's library at his feet. As soon as he walked into the room, he could tell that Sam was asleep: the book in his lap was not supported by a hand and the back of his head was tilted a little too much against the back of the couch, the angle not appropriate for reading a book that was laying across the younger man's thighs. Dean was not surprised that Sam had fallen asleep; neither of them had gotten much rest after their father's death, and Dean himself had almost fallen asleep against the Impala.

Standing in the same room as his brother, Dean felt some heat singe his cheeks. The feeling of awkwardness at having dropped his game face in front of his brother was bubbling up from his insides. The feeling was replaced by something warm, however, once he rounded the couch and found himself staring at his brother's face.

Sam's hair was panned out across his face in more than one direction, making him look like a shaggy dog that had just shook water from his fur. Sam's mouth was slack, face loosened while his body was at rest. His kid brother always looked like a child when he slept. The word "cute" flashed briefly across Dean's brain only for the dark recesses of his mind to spring into the forefront of his consciousness.

Save Sam, kill Sam.

Behind his eyes, Dean could see a fluffy-haired Sammy ask him if he wanted the prize he found in the box of Lucky Charms. Dean's nerves could still feel the wetness from a tinny Sammy's eyes seep into his chest after the kid had been frightened by a Ronald McDonald clown. Dean could still see the look of fear on his brother's face after running into a clown at Cooper's circus, the look in his eyes and his body language practically screaming, "I need a hug."

Dean wondered how anyone as kindhearted as his brother, who was in his twenties and still clown phobic, could ever regress into something so malevolent that he would need to be killed by the hand that nurtured him.

"Man, I'm tired of this. It's not worth it, if…" Dean's thought trailed off once he felt Sam stir. He had been so absorbed in his memories that his brain had not registered that he had begun to run his knuckles gently over Sam's cheek.

"Dean?"

Sam's voice was laced thickly with exhaustion, and the older man knew that he could toss his brother back into the arms of sleep if he acted quickly. He did not want to talk to his brother about his breakdown earlier, since the display had proven, without a doubt, Sam's ascertain that Dean was not alright.

"Go back to sleep, Sam," Dean said, swiping the book off of Sam's lap and plopping it onto the pile of texts on the floor.

Sam's muscles quivered as he extended his arms and leg's slightly, stretching his frame. Dean seized the opportunity to grab Sam by the calves and, supporting his upper body by planting a hand to his kid brother's chest, eased him into a prone position by tossing his legs onto the couch.

"You alright?"

The question sent a pang ghosting into Dean's chest. "Right, yeah, everything's just awesome," Dean said to himself, but instead of answering Sam verbally, he placed a hand on top of Sam's head and gently pushed his kid brother's face into a couch pillow, the action an attempt to get him to shut up.

Sam squirmed a bit, but freed his mouth from the pillow as soon as Dean's hand left his head. Turning slightly to face Dean, he was silent for a few beats before asking in a tired voice, "She gonna be okay?"

Dean's shoulders sagged instantly at the question and the look of concern on Sam's face. Looking anywhere but Sam's face, Dean nodded. "Yeah," was all he could manage, his tone too raw at the moment for anything else. After clearing his throat, he placed his palm on the middle of Sam's back, between his shoulder blades, and said, "Just. Stop talking and sleep, huh?"

Sam's lips parted slightly, signaling to Dean that he was about to say something else, but Dean cut him off quickly by putting weight into the hand he had on his brother, pushing Sam further into the worn couch. "Hey—go back to sleep," Dean said in a low tone, rubbing his hand across Sam's back in small circles, knowing that the timber in his voice and the motion of his hand would lull Sam, who was not even half awake, back to sleep.

Once he felt Sam's muscles relax, Dean knew Sam had left the awakened world. Moving his hand from Sam's back, he ran his fingertips into the soft, curly hair nestled at the nap of Sam's neck. It reminded him of the hair Sam had first grown as a baby.

"If you can't save him, you'll have to kill him."

His father's unwanted words passed between his ears, causing him to frown and drop his hand from Sam's hair. Sam had always been his to protect, even when he himself was a child. Sam was his most precious possession, even though he would never breathe a word of that sentiment to anyone living or dead.

Easing down the couch and onto the floor, Dean planted himself in front of his brother, his body an iron shield that was bent on protecting his baby brother from the universe that seemed to be bent on destroying not only Sam's life, but his own.

Dean's muscles tightened as he steeled himself: he was going to save his brother from whatever lurked in the darkness. Sam was not going to die, especially by his hands. Leaning into the couch, Dean solidified his guard over his kid brother and his game face slid back into place.

Dean had a job to do, and he intended on doing it.

END

A/N I actually have a request. I've been having this problem recently where, after I post my stories, the site will break the link and I will lose them, and when I try to open them, the site tells me the "story can't be found." This has happened to a friend before, and what happened with him was someone was stealing his stories and reporting him for plagiarism. I have e-mailed the site about the issue three times before, and I never got any response as to why this is happening. I'm hoping the links are just being screwy, but if any other author has experienced this problem and you got an explanation for it, would you mind PMing me and telling me? It would make me feel better to know that other people are having the same problem. All I ask is that you PM me instead of writing it in a review, since I don't want anyone to think that this is some lame attempt at getting more reviews.

That being said, constructive reviews for my story are welcome :)