Dean was in high spirits as they made their way back to the road. Three werewolves down. And one, he'd killed himself. It was hard to stifle a grin as he glanced at his father.

John must have sensed his jubilance. He reached out a hand to cup Dean's neck, squeezing it briefly.

"Good job tonight."

The rare praise brought a flush to Dean's cheeks he was glad his father couldn't see. He ducked his head, letting himself smile a moment longer before clearing his throat.

"You think that's all of them?"

John's hand dropped back to his side.

"Three missing people, three sets of tracks."

Dean nodded. He'd already known the answer – he just wanted to keep Dad talking.

"So, where are we headed next? Ypsilanti?"

"Portsmouth."

Dean raised his head at that. "What's in Portsmouth?"

"Got a call from a contact a couple hours ago. There was a fire."

John didn't look at him.

He almost stumbled. There was a fire. It meant so much more than that – meant there was a lead on what had killed Mom.

"If we leave tonight, we should be there by mid-morning."

Dean didn't know what to say. Too many thoughts were swirling in his brain, each vying for dominance.

He stifled them, knowing Dad wouldn't appreciate questions, would tell him what he need to know in his own time.

Instead, he settled for, "Yes, sir."

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He tried to keep his breathing shallow. It hurt a little less that way, gave him something else to focus on besides the raw fear that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He clutched his arms over his middle, trying to put more pressure on the wound and stem the bleeding.

There was so much blood. His hands were sticky with it, his coat heavy. It smudged the snow where he sat and stained his jeans.

It was a completely illogical, irrational thought, but he wanted to scoop it all up, hold it to him, somehow put it back where it belonged.

He was so cold.

Tears stung his eyes, mixed with the melted snow running from his bangs. Hours had passed, and Dad and Dean weren't back.

Anything could have happened. Maybe they were out there in the dark, too, alone and hurt.

Maybe they weren't coming back.

He stifled a sob, feeling ashamed. He was a Winchester. Winchesters didn't cry. And they didn't give up, and they didn't leave a man behind.

They were coming for him. They were. And then everything would be okay.

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Dean saw him first, huddled against a tree next to a snow-covered mound. It looked like he was asleep, which didn't bode well for their father's mood. Dean braced himself for the tirade that was to come. They were too well-trained for this kind of error.

"Sam!" His father's voice cut through the stillness and Dean winced from the tension that started to radiate from him.

And then it ceased to matter.

Blood everywhere. All around Sam. All over Sam. It stood out against the starkness of the snow, bathed in now-hazy moonlight.

"Dad . . ." As John reached for him, Sam collapsed against his chest, arms hanging limply.

John held him for an instant, then laid him back on the snow. "Where, Sammy? Where are you hurt?" The question was unnecessary – as soon as John let go, Sam's hands curled over his side, still clasping the gun.

John parted Sam's coat and untied the flannel, fingers fumbling with panic.

Dean knelt beside him, pulling the gun from Sam's hands and then cradling his head. He was dumbstruck by the sheer amount of blood. He drew a shaky breath as he combed through Sam's bangs, trying to calm him. Trying to calm himself. "Sammy . . ."

Sam stared up at him with eyes gone wide from pain and shock. He whimpered and tried to twist away from John's inspection, and Dean tasted bile as he kept a hand splayed over Sam's forehead, trying to still him. Tears pricked his eyes as one of Sam's hands grasped ineffectively at his arm. He shifted, folding it into his own.

Sam's other hand perched on his father's arm, and John could feel the tremor in it. Rage sparked through him, hot and blinding. At this life he'd been forced into, that his boys had been forced into. At the evil that kept wounding his family again and again. At the knowledge that, even though they'd prepared and planned, they still hadn't been spared.

He'd worked so hard to protect them, but now one of his worst fears had come home to roost. One of his sons, hurt. Sam, prostrate on a patch of crimson snow, maybe dying – from something that had happened when he should have been safe.

John's vision swam and it took everything in him to hold himself together. He let the rage drown out the fear, the terror, the overwhelming dread that he was a hair's-breadth away from losing another member of his tiny, precious family.

"Damn it, Sam! What the hell happened?" His tone was harsh and Sam visibly recoiled.

It took him a couple of tries to get the words out. "One of the . . . werewolves . . . its claws . . ." Sam faltered, breath hitching.

It was then that they really noticed the human-shaped mound a few feet away, piled now a dense cover of snow. There was a dark trail of blood edging out to where Sam had been sitting, and, though the details were still unknown, the basic fact was obvious: Sam had faced down a werewolf. Sam, who was supposed to be well beyond the boundaries of the fight. And instead, had ended up on the front lines.

Dean's hand tightened, trying to offer comfort, a litany of Sammy, it's okay, you're okay, please be okay rolling from his tongue.

"You weren't supposed to be involved in this." Lost in his own emotions, John didn't realize how accusatory the words sounded. "You were supposed to sit here until we were done. That's all!"

He pulled off his own shirt, pressing it over Sam's wound without noticing the way Sam's hand fell away from him or how the pain that flared again in his eyes had nothing to with John's more hurried than gentle ministrations.

Dean did, though. He bent even closer over his brother, his lips by Sam's ear, whispering reassurances.

"Dean – go get the car."

His mouth dropped open and he started to speak. Sam's grip tensed reflexively.

John sensed the hesitation and looked up, scowling as he bit out, "Dean – now!"

Dean muttered a "Yes, sir," carefully prying Sam's fingers away from his and giving a soft squeeze before he stood up. "I'll be right back, Sammy. Right back." He waited for Sam to acknowledge his words before breaking into a run, sprinting toward the Impala.

John kept a firm hand on Sam's side while he looked for further damage. "You hurt anywhere else?"

"No, sir." Sam's voice was weak but aware.

John pressed a calloused palm to Sam's forehead. It came away much too cold, and John was torn between relief that there was no fever yet and fear that he was hypothermic. He pulled the boy toward him, ignoring Sam's gasp as he wove his coat over his son's thin arms.

He stood, lifting Sam's light weight with ease. They were almost to the car by the time Dean had it started.

John maneuvered Sam into the backseat, nodding with approval when Dean climbed in beside him. He watched Dean slip his leg under Sam's head, then took Dean's hand and placed it over the center of the wound, pressing with enough force to make Sam moan. His eyes met Dean's, and he saw his own fears reflected back at him. He patted the hand. "Keep it just like this." As he let go, he added, "And don't let him fall asleep."

He didn't wait for a reply.

TBC