The Impala pulled up to the motel quietly, her engine a purr rather than its usual roar, as though she too was afraid of waking Sammy. Dean stayed in his seat, his brother's head heavy on his shoulder, until Dad opened the door and reached across Sammy to hand him the key to the room.

"Okay, kiddo, you open up and I'll bring Sammy in."

Dean nodded, but waited to watch Dad gather Sammy up into his arms before moving himself. Normally he would be taking notes on how funny Sammy looked, all limp in Dad's arms with his head lolling back, so he could tease his little brother later about being a big baby - but not tonight. Not with the plaster cast so new and white on Sammy's wrist.

He scrambled out of the car after them, closing the Impala's door gently behind him, and ran ahead to open their room. Dad carried Sammy in, swinging him sideways through the door so that Sammy's head and feet didn't collect the frame, and then placed him carefully on one of the room's twin queen-sized beds. He looked up at Dean and smiled.

'Well, I don't think he's going to wake up again tonight. Can you find his pyjamas?"

Dean nodded again, and burrowed into the duffle he and Sammy shared, pulling out Sammy's favourite of the two pairs he'd inherited from Dean – red, with trains. Dad changed Sammy carefully, and then picked him up again while Dean drew the bedclothes down. Sammy didn't stir, deeply asleep, which at any other time would have worried Dean. Now he was just relieved that the doctor had been right. Dad tucked Sammy in, bending down to kiss his forehead, then straightened up and smiled at Dean.

"Just because Sammy's skipping dinner's no reason for us to miss out. SpaghettiOs?"

Dean shrugged. He didn't care. His tummy was hurting a little, but not from hunger. It had been hurting ever since Sammy had fallen.

Dad ruffled his hair. He didn't seem upset that Dean wasn't talking. He just walked over to the room's tiny kitchenette and started preparing dinner. Dean stayed by Sammy's bed, watching his brother sleep. Sammy looked paler than usual, and his face still showed signs of tears. He'd cried a little, in shock and pain, when he'd first fallen, but he'd been quiet all the way to the hospital and while the doctor was setting his wrist. Dean's little brother was cool; there weren't many four-year-olds who'd be so brave about a broken bone.

"Dean, dinner."

Dean shook his head. He really wasn't hungry and, even if he had been, he was pretty sure that the tightness in his throat that was making it hard to speak would make it impossible to swallow. But this was Dad …

"Son, that wasn't a suggestion. Go wash up."

Dean nodded - yes, sir - and did as he was told.

Dad had made SpaghettiOs with meatballs – Dean's favourite. Dean looked at his plate unenthusiastically, but Dad had made dinner an order, and so he picked up his fork. After a few mouthfuls he realised that he really was hungry.

"Do you remember breaking your leg?"

Dean looked up and shook his head. Dad put his fork down and leaned back in his chair. He was smiling.

"You were three; Sammy must have been on his way but we didn't know it yet. There wasn't much that could scare your Mom, but you certainly managed it that day. When she called me I could barely understand what she was saying. It wasn't too bad; you'd just cracked your fibula, one of the bones here," Dad reached and tapped Dean's lower left leg under the table, "but your Mom was beside herself. She kept saying, 'I was watching him; I was watching him'. Apparently you'd just jumped off the monkey-bars and forgotten to bend your knees."

Dean watched Dad, dinner forgotten. Dad hardly ever talked about Mom; stories like this were to be held onto tightly, like Sammy clutching a "treasure" in his chubby little fist.

"When I got to the hospital you were fine, you were even pretty proud of your cast, but your Mom was a mess. She thought it was her fault. So I said to her the same thing I'm going to say to you."

Dad leaned forward, his face serious.

"He's a boy. Growing up, he's going to have cuts and bruises and the occasional broken bone and maybe even a concussion or two. It won't be anyone's fault, definitely not yours. It's just life."

"What did Mom say?" Dean asked, his voice a little croaky.

Dad sat back again and smiled. "Well, fortunately I'd distracted her a bit with the whole 'he's a boy' thing. She wanted to know whether I would have felt differently if you'd been a girl; whether I would have expected you to play tea-parties rather than on jungle gyms. She definitely didn't like the idea of you getting hurt. But she realised that she wasn't going to be able to stop it. And she realised that when you did get hurt, it wouldn't be her fault. Just like this isn't your fault."

Dean wanted to say that it was; that he'd been watching Sammy; that he should have done something when Sammy started to fall off the climbing frame. But that was what Mom had thought, too. If it hadn't been Mom's fault that Dean had broken his leg, and even without remembering it Dean knew that it hadn't been, maybe Dad was right and it wasn't Dean's fault that Sammy had broken his wrist.

"What if Sammy thinks it's my fault?"

Dad laughed. "Since he screamed for you when he fell, insisted on sitting in your lap on the way to hospital, and wouldn't let the doctor look at his wrist unless you were holding his other hand, I'm fairly certain Sammy doesn't blame you. Right?"

"Right," said Dean, and felt his body sag a little with relief.

"But it's going to be a pain getting him to keep that cast clean and dry for three weeks," Dad said, sighing. 'In fact, you're going to have so much work to do taking care of him that I think you should go to bed now. You'll need to be rested up."

Dean nodded. Sammy had more energy than anyone or anything Dean had ever seen. Getting him to slow down while his wrist healed – Dean shuddered at the thought.

'So, pyjamas, toilet, teeth, bed."

"Yes, sir," said Dean.

S&DS&DS&D

The room was quiet and dark, the only sound the occasional rustle as Dad turned a page of his journal under the bedside lamp he'd moved to the table. Dean stared at the dimly-lit ceiling. If Dad was right, and Dean was coming to accept that he was, then Dean wasn't going to be able to prevent Sammy from getting hurt. He'd been promising Sammy for more than three years that he'd take care of him, that he wouldn't let anything happen to him or hurt him. Today he'd broken that promise, and Sammy had a broken wrist. Sammy might not blame him, but Dean was finding it hard not to blame himself. But if there was nothing he could do …

Dean slid his arm carefully around Sammy's shoulders and shuffled himself close, until Sammy's hair was tickling his chin. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he whispered. "Dad says that you're going to get hurt, and sometimes I'm not going to be able to stop it. But I'll always try. And if you do get hurt, I'll take care of you. I promise. I'll look after you."

He didn't know whether Sammy had heard him, but when he woke up the next morning Sammy was clinging to him with arms and legs, like a little monkey, and Sammy's face was buried in his neck.

The End.