"Sammy!"
John Winchester hurled himself at his younger son, knocking him down and covering as much of his smaller than average 13 year old body, as he could. A wave of poison-tipped darts whistled overhead, landing harmlessly in the undergrowth.
Dean finally got the burial ground alight, and the advancing group of phantom pygmies disintegrated in front of them. As he ran to where his father was rolling away from Sam, he realised his brother wasn't moving.
"Sam – you with us?" John gently nudged his boy's shoulder.
Sam squinted up at two pairs of concerned eyes.
"I feel….. kinda squashed."