Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. If I did…well, a lot of things would be different. I also do not own the places the Winchesters visit.

Ages this chapter:

Dean= 16

Sam= 12

Anger is manifested in the individual who spurns love and opts instead for fury. It is also known as Wrath.

IN MESA, ARIZONA:

It was a simple salt and burn. In the desert. Which should have made it so much easier. The air was so dry in the desert the fire would be easy to light. The difficulty was the stake out Dean and Sam were on. The grave was in the backyard of some guy's house. John was gathering the supplies for the salt-n-burn while the boys waited for him and made sure no one was home. Sam was sitting in one of the few trees on the block, hidden by its branches and leaves. Dean was under the shade of another tree, taking a nap.

He looked as though he belonged there. He wore jeans and boots, as per usual. His leather jacket was on the ground next to him, showing off his Aerosmith shirt. Sam didn't understand how his brother wasn't dying in the heat. The only telltale sign of Dean being hot, other than in the metaphorical sense, was the slight sheen of sweat coating his forehead and muscled arms. Sam allowed himself to appreciate the intoxicating sight of Dean's glistening skin pulled taunt over perfectly sculpted biceps.

The afternoon passed by slowly, the sun dipping low and relieving some of the obscene heat. Once the sun had been absent from the sky for approximately 30 minutes, Dean stood from his spot and pulled on his jacket. Sam slipped from his tree a bit shakily, his sight doubling before clearing out. Dean joined him, both accepting the guns their suddenly appearing father tossed at them.

"Come on."

They followed him through the house. In the back yard was a bunch of unmarked graves. All but one was dug up. John had managed to knock out 12 last night but the 13th had got shoved to today. The man and wife who owned the house had no idea their backyard was a graveyard but luckily a hunter friend of John's figured it out. He had sent the family on a free faux vacation to give the Winchesters enough time to get all the bodies burned.

"Sam, keep an eye out for the last victim. Dean, help me dig."

The two got to work, quickly digging into the rock. Sam kept watch as best as he could. He found himself stumbling slightly, vision blurring as his head buzzed. The tight grip he had on his Mohawk 48 shotgun was slipping and he hefted it up higher in his hands. Dean grunted, his shovel hitting the wooden lid of the coffin with a dull thud. Almost immediately the serial killer appeared. His own remains were buried here by his brother after he was shot by a detective. The spirit didn't say anything, just yelled in anger and flew at Sam. The brunette managed to get 8 shots of rock salt off before he tumbled back into an unmarked grave, crying out when his head hit the decayed coffin.

"Sam!"

John turned to his eldest, who was halfway out of the grave.

"Burn the remains Dean. I've got the spirit."

Dean nodded, quickly snapping into action. He gave his father a boost out of the grave, taking the blunt end of his shovel and banging it against the wooden coffin. The lid began to give way, revealing a pile of bones. Meanwhile, John was blasting the spirit with round after round of rock salt. The spirit let loose a howl, sending John spiraling into a tree. He crashed to the ground unconscious. Dean covered the body in salt and then gas. He quickly climbed out of the grave, flicking open his lighter. The spirit tried to pull the pistol out of his hand, causing the hunter to drop his lighter.

"You fucker!"

He twirled on his heel, taking aim and firing. The spirit dissipated. Dean growled, dropping to his knees and reaching for his lighter. He had just managed to grasp it when the spirit came back in a raging tornado. The winds picked up and Dean growled, trying to get the flame to light. The spirit howled and began pulling Dean away from the grave by his ankle. A cry escaped his lips at the frozen grip that caused his ankle to ache. The flame ignited and he tossed the lighter into the grave. He turned to lie on his back as he watched the spirit burn. For a few minutes he allowed himself to stare at the starry sky, just catching his breath. Then he heard a groan.

"De'?"

Dean scrambled to his feet, hissing in pain when he stepped down with his left foot. Hobbling to the edge of a nearby grave, he kneeled in the dirt and peered over the edge. Sam lay covered in ash and dirt. He was holding his head, one eye squeezed shut in pain while the other frantically searched for his elder brother. Dean sighed softly in relief.

"Jeez brother, you sure attract trouble."

Sam winced sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head nervously. Dean grinned.

LATER THAT NIGHT:

John wanted to be pleased the Sam was alive and breathing but he was just so angry. Not only had he screwed up the hunt, but Dean had also ended up hurt because of it. Sure, Sam had severe dehydration and was lucky not to have been buried alive. Yet Dean, who had managed to kill the spirit, was out of commission for at least a week. His ankle was so badly sprained he wouldn't be allowed to do anything other than hobble to the bathroom and then back to the couch.

As it was, Dean was made to stay at the hospital overnight, just to make sure everything was in order. Sam hadn't needed to be checked out, which was lucky on John's part because he was able to drop the kid off at the hotel room to clean the guns. Which weren't put away, the eldest hunter realized with a short growl. God, Sam just couldn't help but screw things up! The boy was seriously out of line. John turned and headed to Sam's room, opening the door. The boy was sitting cross-legged on his bed, pouring over a book in his lap.

"Sam."

The brunette looked up; hazel eyes flickering back to the book in his lap after he realized who had called his name. John scowled at the object of his son's attention.

"What's up Dad?"

"Sam…"

The young hunter slowly put his book to the side realizing the anger and soon-to-come beating by the way his father had growled out his name. He carefully maneuvered off the bed, ducking his head so it rested on his chest and letting his body relax. The posture screamed 'submissive' which was something Sam hated himself for allowing. Almost immediately his father's fists were raining down on him, his words loud and particularly cruel tonight. Usually his father spoke simple curses under his breath, mutterings of Sam's mother and her death, how it had been Sam's fault, and whatever frustration that day's hunt had brought.

This was not the first time this had happened. Sam vaguely remembers his father's fists on his flesh when he was 5. That was the first time Dean got hurt because of him. John had gone on a quick hunt and left Dean to look after his little brother as always. Sam had wanted Oreos but they were on the top self. Dean promised Sam he'd get the cookies. He did. It was unfortunate that the eldest Winchester child fell off the countertop and broke his wrist. They had gone to the hospital, were Sam told the doctor what happened because Dean was to out of it.

When they got back to the hotel room John gave Dean his medication and waited for him to fall asleep. Then he'd told Sam what a self-absorbed child he was and how it was his fault Dean was in so much pain and his wrist was broken. Sam had cried and when he did, John smacked him. That only made him cry harder. That was the first time John ever beat Sam. The next morning when Dean questioned Sam's black eye and limp, the 5 year-old told the lie his father had forced him to remember.

"I fell off the bed again, Dean. I'm okay."

That was the first time Sam was beaten. He had thought it would be the only time. His 'daddy' had helped him patch the wounds, whispering that he'd only had a rough day. Sam had allowed it, childish mind believing John when he said it was a onetime thing. It certainly wasn't and Sam found himself snorting at his stupidity.

Sam stood carefully, well aware that something was broken in his chest and if he moved the wrong way there could be disastrous consequences. Carefully he seated himself on the edge of the bed, reaching to grasp the pajamas that were resting on the dresser. Opening the first draw, he pulled out his personal first aid kit and carried both items to the bathroom. After closing the door and locking it behind him, Sam managed to tug off his clothes, dropping them in a cluttered heap on the floor.

Part of him wanted to take a shower to ease his aches and pains but he knew that it would only serve to aggravate his father further. He didn't like noise while he was drowning himself with alcohol. Sam wasn't looking for another round tonight (he never was looking for a round to begin with) and decided to just deal with the tense feeling in his shoulders and back. With deft fingers Sam prodded his chest, ignoring the pain that pushing on the surfacing bruises created. A soft sigh of relief escaped his chapped lips.

The good news was the rib wasn't broken, luckily. It was only fractured. The bad news was that there were two ribs that were fractured, not just the one Sam had thought had been the problem. Grabbing some adhesive medical tape from his kit, he tore off a piece. After making sure it was no more than two inches wide, he began to place it over the first fractured rib. Biting his lip in both concentration and for pain management, he ran the tape along the rib to the center of his back. He repeated the process with the other rib.

Breathing a little easier now that he knew the ribs were at least somewhat stabilized, he reached into the first aid kit. Pulling out a tube of lotion, he squeezed some onto his fingers and gently rubbed it over the worst bruises. Leaving his shirt off so the lotion would dry, he turned his attention to his legs. They had been mostly spared, save the cuts from falling in the grave earlier and the slight throb in his right ankle from John ramming it into the wall. There was little more to do for it than wrap it with an ace bandage. Doing so quickly and efficiently, Sam carefully pulled on his clothes.

Leaving the bathroom after straightening everything, he headed back to his room. Placing the dirty clothes into the bottom of his duffel (thank goodness there hadn't been any blood this time) and the kit back into the nightstand, Sam crawled into bed. Flicking off the light, he lay in the silence and silently wished that Dean was here.

END OF CHAPTER

Emotional? I hope so. I just wanted to make sure you all understood this is anger is on John's behalf, not Sam's. Also, any first aid treatment Sam gives himself now (and in the future) is based off of research, so don't take it as 100% truthful. I'm as bad at research as Dean. ;)

Review?

Eris-R-Renee