I'm so happy! There's a new comment fic meme over at OhSam! :D I live for those things! Any who, here's chapter two! Thank you SO SO much you kind reviewers. The response to chapter one was so heartwarming, it really inspired me! It means a lot, truly. You guys are awesome! Dean's anger was so fun to write for this part :) I hope you like it! Happy reading!

-Punkin

"Their foot shall slide in due time…" Deuteronomy 32:35

Part 2:

All that hard work…poof! All those reassurances, all the time spent building Sammy up…gone, destroyed! In a single night, all because of a single act. I'm beginning to agree with my little brother in that these so called gifts of his are more of a curse. Not because of the crippling physical repercussions, no, because of the psychological warfare he's been enduring for the entire year.

I can't stand to see him like this anymore. To see him reduced to a mere shadow of who he really is.

It's really starting to piss me off. Because how can I make this better? How can I make him believe that yes, he's different, but that doesn't mean he's different?

"Dean…" Sam murmurs another time, voice meek and tinged with thinly veiled uncertainty. Something lodges in my throat. He shouldn't sound that way when he's talking to me. He shouldn't sound so…so scared. It's like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Yep, all that work is definitely far, far gone. I wish to be able to just wave my hand and make everything go away, if only for a little while. Just so it can be me and Sammy, and no one else. No stupid demon hunt, no over bearing father, no psychic mind shit. Just us. Everything would be so simple if it were just us.

I scare myself when I think of all the things I'd be willing to do for Sam, and then am even more scared when I find that there are less and less of these things that are doable at all. It's a cold hard truth, but the fact is, I'm fast becoming useless. It's not a good feeling. Actually, it completely sucks.

"You listen to me, Sam." I'm putting an end to this crap. Right now.

He's staring wide eyed in blatant sorrow up at me, looking for all the world like the four year old who used to insist on lucky charms three times a day, like the toddler whose first word was 'De', like the scared twelve year old who'd climb into my bed after a nightmare, like the sixteen year old who'd jokingly said he'd never out grow me, like the kid I'd pulled from a fire, not once, but twice, and like the little brother who'd always been more 'big' than 'little', especially in the size of his heart.

I earnestly seek his gaze when leaning forward to hover centimeters from the tip of his nose; he quickly looks down and away. I'm having none of it though, and immediately palm the sides of his cheeks, cupping his face in my hands and gently forcing his eyes to meet my own. Surprisingly, Sam doesn't pull away, instead weakly continuing to stare hopelessly back at me, dark eyes shining amidst the dim lighting creeping through the cracks in the curtains.

I recognize it now. The soundless and familiar pleading within the swirling hazel, the silent beg of 'make it better, Dean.' Because he's never had to ask, and god damn it, he won't ever have to start either, not while I'm still kicking. Nonetheless, the levee has been broken, and the flood waters are anything if not massive. Maybe, just maybe, I can be enough to keep us afloat.

My thumbs are resting lightly on the near constant purple bruising underneath Sam's eye lashes. My baby brother: the freaking poster child for a good night's rest. I search his gaze, hoping to latch onto that part within Sammy that isn't so blinded by self doubt and still loyally heeds big brother's words. "Dad does not hate you. He has never hated you. You hear me? He may have trouble showing it, but Dad loves you, more than anything. You understand me?"

Sam's lip trembles slightly. If I weren't so close, I probably wouldn't have noticed. His jaw clenches against my fingers, pupils narrowing defiantly, "Yes he does, Dean. You didn't see it...you didn't see the look in his eyes. He's always resented me, for not wanting to hunt, for wanting to have my own life, for questioning his authority. It's just now not only am I the 'freak son', I'm the 'freak son' with supernatural abilities." The venom in these words staggers me and I desperately want to protest, I want to reach into my little brother's head and shoot all these thoughts before they can come out of his mouth ever again.

I'm at a complete loss. Silence falls for a few instances; Sam's wheezing breaths filling my ears. He's getting himself worked up; in the back of my mind I know that's a bad thing. He needs to rest. Hell, we both do. Sam blinks, something flashing and rippling across his face, like an unbidden, but shocking, thought. "Dean," Sam gasps out, all bitterness gone, "You don't….I mean, you don't think…Dad wouldn't…he wouldn't hurt me." It comes out as a half question, a pitiful mixture of denial and belief. Yet, something breaks deep inside me.

I take it back. The flood waters aren't massive, their damn near catastrophic. I feel like I'm drowning already.

When I try to speak, the words catch and I can only splutter for a brief second. Shaking my head, my hands move from Sam's face, neck, and shoulders and back over again, not sure where to hold him but trying to do so all the same. "Sammy…" At my apparent loss of articulation, Sam's eyes close and I know I've lost him. He's pulling away now, curling into the bed and placing a protective arm over his bandaged chest.

I want him to sleep, to rest, to have happier dreams, but damn it, how will that help anything at this point? I follow his movements, at last giving in to the irresistible urge to sweep his bangs away from his sickly skin. "Dad would never hurt you," I whisper, fingers hovering on the back of his neck, "and I promise, he doesn't hate you, kiddo. He just needs time, that's all. He'll come around…you'll see." I hope my words carry a hell of a lot more conviction that I'm feeling.

I sit there for a very long time, even though it doesn't seem that way, leaning over Sam as he sleeps. "You'll see." I add quietly. But I'm waiting just as much as Sam is, because I'm putting a lot of trust in Dad right now, and if he lets me down, if he makes one more wrong move here, then he can kiss this family goodbye.

Enough is fucking enough. Staring down at Sam, I've never been more certain of anything.

I remain poised, vigilant. That is why I am on my feet so fast the absolute second I hear someone at the motel room door. Pulling the gun from my waist band, I turn to face the entry way, leaving a few open feet in front of me.

The door is gently, hesitantly pushed open. Yeah, that's right Dad, you should be wary, you bastard. After all that happened, he's just going to waltz back in here? It becomes extremely difficult to reign in my fury then, the thought of awaking Sammy the only thing keeping me from downright leaping on our father.

"Howdy, Dad." I sneer, maneuvering myself protectively in front of my little brother.

Dad stops, hands rising in a placating manner, eyes darting from my face to the figure huddled on the bed behind me. I immediately move to block his view.

He swallows, appearing very old and very, very tired all of a sudden. He's run himself ragged chasing after this demon, too bad I'm not feeling very sympathetic at the moment. "Dean…"

I raise the gun as he moves to take an apparent step into the room and cross the salt line we have placed out. He halts in his tracks, eye brows furrowed. "You take one step inside this room and I swear I will shoot."

Dad remains frozen, eyeing my gun and obviously not sure what to do. The confusion that flickers in his gaze pisses me off even more. "What? Not fun being treated like you're less than human?"

Ah…so now he understands! I glare as he looks guiltily away from me and down at his toes. "Ok, I get it. Listen, Dean…"

I'm moving forward before I can even think, "No you listen for once, Dad!" The gun is still in my hands, we're both very much aware, "Sammy thinks you hate him, like, really, truly hates him! Do you have any idea what you've done? Do you?"

His mouth is open, like a fish, hands remaining hovering in the air, yet an infuriating defiance is in his eyes. After all, John Winchester is never wrong, right? "You watch your…"

I cut him off once more, "Keep your voice down," I hiss, pushing outside and softly closing the door behind me. Dad bristles, his anger simmering just barely below the surface.

I can honestly care less. "You have ten minutes to convince me not to take Sammy and leave you here on your ass. Ten minutes, so you best start talking." I wave the hand gun in front of his face, though the evident danger and deadly promise in my words make it unnecessary.

The anger seems to seep out of Dad all at once, his face rapidly paling, "I screwed up, I know. I just…I needed time, Dean. I couldn't handle it. Seeing Sam….seeing him move that gun, it was…it shocked me, is all. I had to get away, had to clear my head a bit."

"Clear you head?" Ok…so there goes the self promise not to yell. "What the fuck, Dad?"

His face reddens. I've never spoken to him this way. "Dean, I'm sure Sam knows I don't hate him. That's ridiculous…"

"Is it?" I'm pushing at his chest now, forcing him to take a step back, "What else is he supposed to think when his own father doesn't say a word to him, not one word, after discovering he has psychic abilities? What other conclusion could he draw from that? Huh, Dad? Tell me!"

Dad pushes my hands away. Good, now he's just as livid as I am. Bring it on. "Don't you talk to me that way, boy! You have no right to judge me! I find out Sammy has some sort of demonic power and I'm expected to just take it in stride?"

I'm about to punch the man. I really, truly am. But what stops us both mid screaming match is the soft gasp that comes from behind us.

When I look, it's to discover Sam's hunched, injured figure, leaning against the now open doorway of our room, shoulders gently shaking and eyes shining with hurt. "Sammy…" I breathe out in an anguished whisper. Dad's staring remorsefully, the burn and sting of his words very fresh in the air around us. Its damn near palpable.

I see it then, as if in slow motion, as my little brother's knees begin to buckle, and am at once rushing forward to try and catch him in time.

TBC…

Johnny, Johnny, Johnny…you just never learn, do you? I really love doing Dean's POV! :D But poor Sammy…I keep picturing his season one, trade mark puppy dog look. Boy do I miss it lol Review? *grin* hugs!