Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or anything pertaining to it; only my writing. All rights go to their respective owners.

A/N: Y'all remember Dean and Sammy talking about their shed misadventure?

Sam's voice rang out in a sharp cry a moment after he had landed on the solid ground. What had made Dean think it a good idea to jump from the shed? Where was Uncle Bobby, anyway?

"Sammy!" he yelled, his panic seeping through. The nine-year-old kneeled beside his brother; Sam clutched his arm; it was twisted in an odd angle, all too clearly broken. "No. Oh, no, Sammy. I'm so sorry." Dean worked his hand through his hair. Dad was going to kill him. This was Dean's fault. On his watch, when his one job was supposed to be making sure Sam was okay. Instead he sent him plummeting to the earth thinking he could fly.

"It's going to be okay, Sam, I promise okay? Come on, can you stand?" Sam nodded, his cheeks wet with tears, and Dean spoke against the tightness of his throat."Okay." Dean held Sam to him as he cradled his arm and pulled him gently to his bike. He told him, "Okay, Sammy, sit on the bars okay? I'm going to get us to the hospital."

Sam looked fearfully at Dean, his swollen eyes wide. "H–hospital? No—n–no—"

"Sammy, your arm is hurt," Dean told him, fighting to keep his voice calm. "We need help." Dean sat him down and slowly began pedaling.

"Is Dad going to be mad?" Sam asked, biting his lip.

Dean, peering around his brother, blinked back tears. "Yeah, Sammy. But it's okay. We'll be okay."


"What were you thinking?" John shouted at Dean. His son wanted to run and hide; his father's face was red and so angry, angrier than Dean had seen in a long time. "You're lucky it was only a broken arm!" Dean stared at the ground. His eyes were burning and his lungs felt strange, like it was taking more effort than usual to breathe.

"I know, Dad, I'm sorry; I didn't know he'd—"

"You didn't know what? That your five-year-old brother wouldn't get hurt jumping from the top of an eight-foot-high shed roof?" John shoved a fist through his dark hair. Damn it, kid, you'd think you were the five-year-old!"

"I'm sorry," Dean tried again.

"You're sorry," his father echoed, laughing bitterly. "Bobby… that guy…" He looked at Dean. "I don't want to lose any more people, Dean. You got it?" Dean nodded quickly. "Don't let this happen again. Because I swear if something happens to your brother under your watch again—"

"I know, Dad." Dean pulled at the hem of his shirt. "I know." John looked at Dean for a second more, then shook his head and walked off to speak with the doctor. Dean sank into the chair behind him, his head in his hands.

He would never let Sammy get hurt again.