Summary: John drags his boys on another hunt, but unfortunately this time they weren't prepared. When a caring teacher discovers the boys' injuries, will her meddling help or hurt the family? A wee!chester story.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything Supernatural but I can't pass up the good material it inspires! Enjoy!!

"Sam!" Dean shouted, abandoning his attempts at lighting the wet wood on fire. John watched in horror as Dean flew past him to his youngest son's side. One of the two wendigos, apparently a couple, had thrown Sam harshly into a large tree trunk where he connected with the middle of his back. The boy crumpled to the ground in pain. Dean slid to his side, completely uncaring about his own safety, and tried to get his little brother back on his feet.

"Sammy? You okay? Look at me, bro…"

As John was grappling with the male wendigo, he caught a fast movement out of the corner of his eye. The female wendigo was going after his sons again.

"Dean, look out!" John screamed in warning, his fear increasing his strength, allowing him to breaking free of the male, aim his last flare, and shoot it deep within its chest cavity. The creature screamed in pain as the flames engulfed it.

John made sure it was dead before turning and running towards his children, even though he knew the speed of the female creature greatly surpassed his own. He knew he wasn't going to make it in time. He swooped down to pick up the discarded flare gun that had been knocked from Sam's grip moments earlier.

They thought they were prepared for this hunt. They checked and double checked everything… except the weather report. They knew they were up against two wendigos. They knew the only way to kill them was with fire. They had no idea it was going to downpour only a few minutes after their arrival.

John knew they should have turned back and lived to fight another day, but his drive to hunt overpowered his drive to protect his family, something he regretted with all his heart now.

As he ran, he took aim and pulled the trigger, furious when the gun jammed having been coated in mud and grime. Switching tactics, he grabbed at twigs and sticks, attempting to start a fire with the lighter he always carried in his back pocket. However, nothing was dry enough to catch, adding to his ever increasing fury and fear. He felt as though he were moving in slow motion. It seemed like his children were being pulled further and further away like a horrible nightmare.

As he moved, a terrible narrating voice screamed at him that if anyone got hurt tonight it was entirely his fault, and that Sam didn't want to be here in the first place. Sam had a hard test in the morning that he wanted to study for but John thought it would be good for his boy to get some more practice hunting instead.

Dean was already exceptional at it. He had been begging John to let him come on hunts since he was strong enough to hold a gun and pull the trigger. Now his boys were fifteen and eleven, and they had already acquired more bruises, broken bones, concussions, and scars than the average stunt man or football player.

Every one of these injuries his children had been forced to hide from outsiders such as their teachers and peers. Anyone who wouldn't understand their way of life. His boys were tough, and he was damn proud of them for it, even if he rarely showed it.

A cry of pain brought John back to the present with a harsh thump. Dean had seen the wendigo preparing to attack again and used his own body to protect his little brother's. The result was the creature's long, sharp nails raking across his back. The pain forced him to arch backwards and yell out, but he quickly forced the burning agony aside and curled back over his fallen brother.

Sam was more alert now that he heard his brother's cry and was trying to push him off. He didn't want Dean to get hurt trying to save him. Sam could take care of himself. Dean refused to yield though and pressed Sam down harder into the mud until the boy relented and stopped his struggling.

The next thing Sam knew, Dean was being dragged away from him by the collar of his shirt, kicking and fighting against the wendigo's grip. Apparently, after hearing her mate's death cries, she decided she wanted Dean in return.

"Dean! Dad, help him!" Sam scrambled to his feet, teetering slightly, and broke into a run after his brother. John was by his side seconds later, his son's cries for help forcing his legs to move even faster.

"Let him go, you bitch!" he roared, taking out his knife and swiping at the creature's arm that had a hold on Dean. The beast made a horrible sound of rage, dropped Dean back to the ground, and turned furiously on John. Dean yelped as he hit the ground, the back of his left shoulder colliding with a jagged rock sticking out of the mud. Ever the perfect soldier, he pushed his pain aside in order to focus on the task at hand.

"Dad, give me your lighter!" Dean gasped from the ground. John shot him a questioning look before returning his gaze to the looming wendigo. "Just trust me!" his son shouted. John did as he asked and tossed his lighter to Dean who immediately began tearing off his undershirt and the only dry layer of clothing he had left and set it ablaze.

John dove forward, grabbed the flaming cloth, stuck his knife through it and pinned it to the wendigo's chest as it took one last furious swipe at John's head who ducked just in time.

The creature screamed in pain and defeat as it was consumed by the flames. John grabbed Sam's elbow and Dean's booted foot and dragged them away from the raging fire.

Once they were a safe distance away, Sam and John crouched down on either side of Dean to make sure he was okay.

"Son? You alright?"

"Yeah, dad. Just give me a sec." Dean panted harshly, trying to get his breathing back under control. Now that the danger was gone, the aches and pains in his body were making themselves known.

"That was pretty quick thinkin' there, kiddo. Settin' your shirt on fire?" His dad beamed down at him. Dean gave him a half-hearted smirk back.

"I got sick of waitin' for you to come up with somethin' better." John patted his son on the chest and felt the tremors from the adrenaline and the cold coursing through Dean. He also noticed his boy's lips were turning a slight shade of blue. "Come on, let's get you two warmed up. You're both soaked to the bone."

"Look who's talkin', gramps," Dean groaned as he picked his head up a few inches and the world around him spun.

"Easy, Dean." John placed his strong hand on Dean's shoulder and was about to help lever him into a sitting position when Dean cried out and attempted to break away from his grip. "Whoa! Hey, what's wrong?"

Sam's worried eyes appeared just over Dean's face and, being the big brother, instantly had to calm his fears. "I'm okay, Sammy. Just a few scratches." Dean shivered violently as the rain pounded down over his body, each drop on his bare skin feeling like needle pricks.

John, afraid to cause his son any more pain, held out a hand for Dean to grab onto, then pulled him carefully to his feet. With Sam protected under his other arm, he guided his children to the safety of the Impala.

When they reached the motel, medical John took over. It was time to assess the damage.

"Dean, come here."

"Yes, sir?"

"Let's take a look at that shoulder."

"I'm fine, dad. Take care of Sammy first."

"I've been keeping an eye on Sam and he's gonna be fine. I'll check him in a minute. You first. I can see the blood on your clothes from here. Let's go. Shirt off."

Grumbling, he did as he was told, pausing and hissing on occasion when the shirt pulled at his wounds. John called to him as he got the first aid kit out.

"Sit on the bed, Dean."

Dean sat and Sam sat next to him, anxious to make sure his brother was really okay. Being the center of attention never sat well with Dean unless it was in a room full of girls. This scrutiny was downright embarrassing.

When Sam glanced at his back, he drew in a sharp breath of air, making Dean roll his eyes.

"It's not as bad as it looks, Sam. I told you, I'm okay."

"Dean, those scratches are really deep… And what happened to your shoulder?"

"Fell on a rock. No biggie."

When John walked towards the bed with the kit, Dean shot him a pleading look that his father recognized immediately. Sam was being too clingy and making Dean uncomfortable. Plus, Dean didn't want his little brother to witness the patch job he was going to need.

"Sam, why don't you go take a shower and get some dry clothes on. You're going to catch pneumonia sittin' around like that."

"But daaaaddddd… I want to stay with Dean…"

Dean dropped his head into his hands in frustration. He loved his brother, but the boy was a bit overbearing sometimes. Dean had been putting on a front for his family since the moment he was hurt. Yeah, his body stung like hell right now, but Sammy didn't need to know that. He wanted his brother out of the room so he could relax and drop the act a bit.

"Now, Sammy. Dean'll be fine, and you'll see him when you get out."

"Fine…"

Sam slunked off the bed, determined to make it known that he was not pleased with this plan.

As he gathered up his clothes to head into the bathroom, John gently gripped his elbow and turned him.

"Hang on, Squirt. How many fingers am I holdin' up?"

"Three, dad…" Sam rolled his eyes.

"You know the drill, son. How old are you?"

"Eleven. And Dean is fifteen, our last hunt was a black dog in Michigan, and yes I can see straight. Satisfied?"

"Just about. Walk a straight line to the bathroom door for me."

Sam did and turned back waiting for his dad's approval.

"Alright. Go ahead. But if you start to feel dizzy…"

"Shut off the water, sit down, and put my head between my legs, and call for you. Yeah, yeah, yeah…"

"Good. Be careful."

He was answered by the bathroom door shutting. Sighing, he turned his attention back to Dean who was craning his neck, trying to see the damage done to his back.

"You tryin' out for Exorsist or impersonating an owl?"

"Ha. Ha. You're hilarious."

"Why don't you let me do the lookin' before you pull somethin'?"

"Knock yourself out."

Dean sat perfectly still as his father carefully prodded the deep scratches in his lower back and only winced once or twice if John pressed a little too hard. Then he moved up to Dean's shoulder, grimacing as he saw bits of earth still embedded in the gash and a painful looking bruise just about covering his entire shoulder blade surrounding it.

"Jeez, Dean. Did you hit a rock or a house?"

"A house in the shape of a rock."

"Thought so. I'm gonna need to clean that one out and these scratches should have a couple stitches to be safe. The gash on your shoulder should be okay with some butterfly bandages."

Dean nodded. He had figured all that out by himself, just according to the pain he was feeling.

"Alright. Slide back and lay down flat on the mattress. Look to the right." John knew pain was mainly mind over matter, and not looking at the wounds tended to ease the patient, so he made sure Dean was looking in the opposite direction. He pushed the pillows to the floor and helped Dean situate himself so that he had the best access to his wounds and decent lighting.

He poured some peroxide onto a cotton swab and didn't bother warning Dean it was going to sting like hell. Dean aught to know that by now. John started cleaning around Dean's shoulder wound, soaking up the drying blood so he could see it better. Dean tensed at the pressure on his painful bruise, but kept his mouth shut.

John took out his tweezers and began plucking out all the small pieces of rock that chipped off when Dean's shoulder blade collided with it. When he felt Dean jerk beneath his hands at a particularly deep prod, he tried to sooth his son without giving in to the fatherly impulses. If he did, he wouldn't be able to stitch his son back together later. He had to stay focused in military mode.

"Easy, kiddo. Breathe through it. Try to relax."

Slowly, he felt Dean's muscles start to uncoil again as Dean forced the pain away.

"Atta boy. Focus on something else. I'm almost done."

When he pulled the last fragment free of his son, he doused the wound with more peroxide to flush it out. Dean fisted the sheets and a small yelp escaped his lips before he could clamp down on it.

John rubbed soothing circles on Dean's upper back and massaged his neck to help ease the increased tension in his muscles as the liquid frothed and did its job. When Dean's body refused to relax, he leaned down and gently blew on the bubbling fluid, helping diminish the stinging.

The small relief and his exhaustion was finally winning over and Dean slowly relaxed, sinking into the sheets. John patted his uninjured shoulder before holding the two jagged edges of the cut together and bandaging them. Lastly, he placed a large square of gauze over the wound and taped it down securely. One problem taken care of…

John moved down a few inches so he was sitting by Dean's knees, making it easier to reach his lower back. As he threaded the needle, Sam chose that very moment to rush back out of the bathroom, looking like he had only taken the time to half dry himself in his anxiousness to get back to his brother. He froze a few steps into the room, wide eyes locked on the needle in his father's hand. Both boys hated needles, but while Dean put up a tough façade and pretended it didn't bother him, Sam was known to freak out a little.

John looked up from the threaded needle and his eyes met his youngest's panicked ones. "Sammy…"

"D-dad? Is it really that bad? Do you have to…?"

"Yeah, Sammy, it's best I do. It'll help him heal faster."

"But dad, Dean hates…"

"It's fine, Sammy. I only need a couple," Dean tried to reassure both his brother and himself.

"Sam, why don't you take a walk or turn the TV on or somethin'…" his dad tried.

"No, I want to be with Dean! You said I could be when I got out of the shower!"

"Promise you won't throw up this time, Sam?" Dean butted in. Sam shook his head in the affirmative.

John relented. "Fine. Get over here and make yourself useful then."

Sam walked timidly to Dean's right side so he could see his face, and though Dean was a master at hiding his emotions, Sam was just as skilled at finding them deep within his brother's eyes. Dean was scared. He sat beside his brother, uncurled his fingers from the death grip they had on the sheets, and entwined their fingers together.

John took out his lighter and sterilized the needle, then quickly soaked the thread, as well as his hands, in alcohol. When everything was prepared, he carefully slid the needle through his son's skin, hooked it upward, and captured the other side, drawing them together.

Dean's grip on Sam's hand tightened immeasurably, but Sam was too focused on the needle to complain. He was already a slight greenish tint. John spoke words of comfort to both his boys as he continued, one neat stitch right after the other until he reached the end of the deep scratch, tied it off, and moved to the second one. As he was halfway done with the third and last scratch, Dean's strength betrayed him and he let the pleasant darkness consume him.

John could easily feel the change in his child as he relaxed bonelessly against the mattress, ignorant of the pain he should be feeling. If Sam wasn't gripping Dean's hand so hard, his arm would have fallen limply to the bed.

"Dad? What's wrong with him?" Sam's concern was evident in his voice. John quickly checked Dean's pulse and lifted his eyelids to be sure.

"He just passed out, Sam. He'll be fine. This way, he won't feel it anymore."

"But is he going to wake up again?"

"Of course he will."

"When?"

"I don't know yet, kiddo. Depends on how long his body needs to recover."

"I hope he recovers fast."

"Me too, son. Me too."

John finished tying off the last stitch, spread plenty of antibiotic ointment over the cuts, then taped more gauze over them. Then he stood and went into the bathroom to wash Dean's blood from his hands. When he came back out it was to find his youngest son curled up on the bed next to his brother's prone form, still clutching his hand.

John sighed and walked to Sam's side of the bed. "Let's take a look at your head before you fall asleep."

Sam refused to leave the bed, but sat up a few inches and tilted his head down so John could get a good look. His father brushed his fingers over the boy's scalp until he found a good-sized lump at the base of his skull. Sam whimpered and pulled away, refusing to let John touch him again until he apologized and promised he wouldn't do it again.

John swore he'd be more careful and held in the small chuckle that tried to escape at Sam's pure innocence. He was amazed that the boy had retained it even after all the hunts he'd been dragged to, and all the times he had to patch his wounded family back up again. Once John was satisfied that Sam wasn't bleeding, he got a towel full of ice and held it behind Sam's head as he laid back down with his brother. John got a second towel of ice and placed it gently on Dean's shoulder to help with the bruising and stiffness as well as the swelling of the joint.

Dean was still soaked, having been unable to take a shower like Sam had, so John walked quietly back over to the boys' bed, reached underneath Dean and undid his belt and jeans, then tugged them off and dropped them in a sloshing heap next to the bed. He took a cursory glance at the boy's legs, making sure he didn't miss any other injuries. Leaving Dean's boxers intact, John took the quilt and blanket from his own bed and draped them over his boys.

As he shut the lights off, he whispered goodnight to his children, his soldiers, then crawled under his own sheets and drifted off as well.

TBC

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