So I've been on a S12 rewatch binge and this got stuck in my head. I am still working on Splint (I promise!), but I had to get this out because it was in the way!

Any medical inaccuracies are my own; I'm not a medical professional!

Enjoy!

oOo

"A million stories that made up a million shattered dreams."

- Far From Home, Five Finger Death Punch

oOo

"We're your sons and you've been gone, our whole lives, you've been gone."

The bunker rang with heated tension: an unstable air that was tempered with anger and hurt, swirling around the three Winchesters as they faced off over the war room table. Sam sat beside his brother, the elder Winchester glaring across at their mother.

"You said you needed time – no – you said you needed space." Dean's finger jabbed at her, his voice simmering with barely contained anger. "So we gave you your space. But you didn't need just space – no – you needed space from us."

Sam flinched, breathing out hard, fighting the overwhelming dread that built within him, the anger rolling from his brother in seething waves that drenched the room. Was this how Dean had felt whenever his younger brother had argued with John? His anxiety ratcheted up a notch, thrumming through his veins, making him feel ten years old again. He didn't like where this was going, but he couldn't stop Dean. He wouldn't.

"That's not true!" Mary spat, her frown livid. She thought she was justified, thought her anger was strong enough to beat Dean down. It was yet another sign that she had no idea who they were: who they'd become. Yet the knot in Sam's stomach told him they hadn't known either; they'd assumed Dean had got his fire from John.

Mary had been the one with the temper.

Sam had wondered if their dad had ever seen it. A part of him had concluded that he probably hadn't – her fierceness was tied inexplicably to her hunting.

He felt Dean turn towards him minutely – a subtle shift in his body language. Sam adjusted his position, leaning more on the arm of the chair, providing a small measure of comfort for his brother. Dean was almost at boiling point; he could feel it. His dread threw another log on the fire in his stomach. He never wanted to see those he loved argue, but he couldn't intervene. His words were stuck like glue in his throat.

"How about for once you just try and be a mom?" Dean snapped, breaking his reverie. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head away. This was going to end so badly.

The silence thickened, dragging itself out before Mary spoke, her voice quiet but hard and cutting.

"I am your mother but I am not just a mom. And you are not a child."

Just a mom? Did she have any idea what she sounded like? There was no such thing as 'just a mom' for them. Sam turned his gaze up to his big brother, knowing that those words would have cut deep. The anger had fallen from Dean's face, replaced by a sorrow so intense it made Sam's heart ache.

"I never was." Dean said it quietly, without drama, without malice. For him, it was simply a fact. A horrifyingly simple, lonely little confession that spoke volumes. Sam felt tears well and he looked away, running his hand across his mouth, fighting the ache that rose.

Neither of them had been children – not really. Dean had tried to make his childhood as normal as he could, and Sam could never thank him enough for that, but, hard as Dean may have tried, Sam had still grown up too quick. Just like him. He'd had to do so many things that kids were never meant to do.

Blinking away the tears, he drowned out Mary's response, no longer able to care about what she'd said as his childhood whispered up to pull him from their argument.

oOo

"SHIT!" Metal clanked against the floor of the motel room, making Sam bolt upright, gripping the back of the sofa to peer up over it, his episode of Thundercats forgotten.

"You're not s'posed to swear, Dean. Dad says so," he chided, puffing his little chest out importantly. It wasn't very often he got to make adult comments and rarer still that he got to say them to his big brother. His big grey eyes widened when he saw Dean lean in close to the sink, the faucet pouring a jet of water over his hand. "Dean? What's wrong?" He had expected Dean to grumble at him, but he hadn't – he hadn't even looked over at his little brother. Anxiety took hold and Sam scrambled off the sofa, padding around it in short hopping steps. The gushing water drowned out the sound of his socked feet on the lino flooring. He stopped by Dean's side, gripping the kitchen surface and lifting himself up onto his toes to see. He looked up at Dean and terror washed through him when he realised why Dean hadn't answered him; he hadn't been able to. Tears streaked the older boy's face.

Dean never cried.

Sam's gaze snapped to the faucet where he saw Dean holding his left hand under the water than was tinged with red below his hand.

"It's okay, Sammy, I'm okay," Dean croaked, his voice breaking as he sniffled, trying his best to pull himself together for his little brother. The ten-year-old kicked himself; he'd always wanted to look strong for Sam, no matter what.

"What did you do?" Sam asked, unconvinced. If Dean was crying, he wasn't okay. The younger Winchester looked around, spying the knife on the floor. He let go of the kitchen counter and walked over to it.

"No!" The shout jerked him to a halt and he turned back to Dean. "Leave it, Sammy; it's sharp. I don't want you hurtin' yourself."

"I know how to pick up knives, Dean," Sam grumbled, frowning. Dean smiled through his tears.

"I know you do, but I'd rather do it. Look, can you grab a towel from the bathroom?" Sam nodded obediently and ran towards the bathroom, picking up one of the smaller unused handtowels from the rail before racing back to find Dean standing with his arms still held under the water but his forehead resting against the edge of the counter.

"Dean?" he asked nervously, tugging gently on his big brother's shirt. Dean raised his head.

"Thanks, kiddo," he smiled as he took it, the look not quite managing to reassure Sam the way it usually did. Dean was pale, his eyes puffy from crying. Sam loitered by his side, staying close, watching as Dean turned the faucet off and wrapped his left hand tightly in the towel. He hugged the hand under his right arm and walked over to the knife, picking it up off the floor and putting it carefully on the kitchen counter next to the chopping board he'd been using. Sam followed him, keeping close, as he walked over to the tattered sofa, still holding his hand in the towel tightly.

"I guess I should stick to Spaghettios, huh?" he joked when he plonked himself down on the couch. Sam hauled himself up next to him, still not sure whether his jokes meant everything was alright.

"I like Spaghettios," he replied helpfully, giving his brother a small smile, trying to hide his worry. Dean's brow creased and he leaned over, giving Sam's hair a soft ruffle.

"Sammy, I'm okay," he insisted, but Sam's eyes were glued to the towel. He pointed at it and Dean looked down, his face falling with dismay. Blood was beginning to seep through it already. He unwrapped the towel and Sam stared in horror at the deep gash that ran across his left index finger, blood pooling from it. The elder Winchester quickly wrapped it again and squeezed hard. Panic flittered through Sam.

"I think we should call Dad. He always says to call if something bad happens," he recited, looking over at the phone.

"We can't – Dad's busy and he won't be back for hours. Plus he has to call us first, you know that," Dean hissed through the pain.

"If we went to a doctor, they could make it better, couldn't they?" Sam tried again, watching as Dean lurched off the sofa and disappeared into the bedroom, reappearing before he'd had the chance to get up himself. He held the battered green first aid box that they took everywhere with them. Walking past the sofa, Dean went to the kitchen table instead and set the box down carefully, flipping the lid up one-handed. Sam climbed off the sofa again and pulled up a second chair as Dean pulled out a bottle of sterilising solution and a needle.

"Dean…" he began, uncertainty tinging his voice.

"We can't go to a hospital, Sammy, not without Dad and this can't wait," Dean interrupted, shaking his head, "but I need you to help me. Can you do that?" Sam nodded, holding back tears. This wasn't okay and they weren't old enough for this; this was the kind of thing Dad did. Whenever they scuffed a knee or grazed an elbow, he was there to fix them up. Neither of them had ever done anything like this. "Hey." He looked up with welling eyes to see Dean giving him that same reassuring smile. "I've helped Dad do this before – I know what I'm doing, Sammy. Can you grab a bowl and another towel for me?"

Sam did as he was told, hurrying to collect the items Dean asked for. He climbed onto the kitchen chair, squeezing the white solution bottle with both hands as Dean held a curved needle over the bowl with his good hand. Sam's concern grew as he watched that hand shake with a trembling that couldn't mean anything good.

"You need to thread this through the eye. It's really small so you're gonna have to concentrate," Dean instructed, his brow prickling with sweat. Sam took the thread and closed one eye, aiming the thin strand at the end of the needle. He missed it a few times, but, with each miss, Dean reassured him and encouraged him, never once losing his patience, despite the pain he must've been in.

Finally, the thread took and, with a grin of triumph, Sam pulled it far enough through so that it wouldn't slip.

"Good job, Sammy," Dean smiled, his face pale and his skin clammy as he held out his hand for the needle. Sam looked from the needle to the trembling fingers that were outstretched, his little brow crinkling. He looked up, meeting pained green with serious grey.

"I can do this, Dean," he insisted, his words rushing out when Dean opened his mouth. "You're the one who hurts and when you hurt you don't concentrate. You can tell me what to do."

"Sammy…"

"You always take of me. I want to help," he pressed again, sitting up straighter, making himself bigger. He could do this. He might not be very old, but he could help his big brother. Moments passed and he was sure Dean was going to say no. Slowly he nodded.

"You need to do everything I tell you, okay?"

Sam nodded vigorously, pulling himself closer to his brother. Under Dean's watchful eye, he raised the needle.

oOo

No, they had never been real children. Real six-year-olds didn't stitch up their brother's fingers. It was the first time he'd ever worked on Dean and, he'd found out years later, that he'd done it before Dean ever had. His brother had always helped their dad, but, before then, he'd never done the work himself.

Sam looked up at Mary, at the fierce glare that marred her face, the stubborn set of her jaw. What if she knew the truth? What if she knew that Dean had been his brother, his father, and more than just a mom to him? What if she knew that Sam had taken just as much care of his brother?

Maybe she would drop the just and see what it was that they'd idolised in her.

Safety. Security.

"It's not like that."

"Yeah, Mary, it is." Sam didn't flinch that time. "And you made your choice." He looked up at his mother as he leaned closer to his brother. "So there's the door."

She looked at them both, stunned. No, Sam realised, she didn't get it. Not at all. Maybe if she'd seen more value in her title, she would have. Dean walked off, his hand brushing briefly across Sam's back, seeking comfort. Giving it.

Sighing deeply, wishing he could fix the mess that lay before him, Sam pushed himself up out of his chair, half-turning towards the direction Dean had gone, unable to look up at her.

"Sam." She said it without any begging in her voice, anger still lingering in the edges of her tone. Since she'd been back, she'd grown more comfortable with Dean, but she'd remained stiff with him and that hurt more than he wanted to admit. She wasn't going to implore him; she didn't know how to connect with him. With tears beginning to well, he raised his eyes to her.

"You should go."

oOo

I figured there had to be moments when Sam got to look after Dean too and, while a six-year-old doing this may seem farfetched, they are the Winchesters – nothing is normal for them! As you can probably tell, I'm not the biggest fan of Mary following her treatment of the boys, especially since the revelations of Sam's feelings in S13! I don't hate her…but she is not in my good books. At all.

Time for me to get back to Spint!

Please review and let me know what you think!