Authors note: Next chapter

Disclaimer: still not mine. They would've hugged by now. At least 10 times.

Walking along the corridor, with the coffee stinging his fingers, he knew. It was happening all over again.

He was crying, the tears streaming down his face, leaving in their wake trails that burnt like acid, his whole body was shaking in denial. He couldn't. He wasn't in control. He couldn't stop this. He wanted to run and hide under the bed, but even that wasn't a sanctuary anymore. Not after he knew what lurked there in the darkness. It crawled out, its tendrils gliding across the floor, snaking itself around his body, until the light was all but extinguished, in tantalizingly close reach, but he could never reach far enough.

The dark was suffocating now, squeezing and tightening its grip, until his body went numb and burnt like fire at the same time. Burnt like Jessica. Burnt like mom. Burnt like the fires of hell where his father perishes in agony. Burnt like Deans eyes, when you saw one of the little lights in them that made them Dean's, flicker and die.

A sob escaped his lips, even though he had none.

Dean lifted his face off of the desk, a piece of paper sticking to his cheek which he had been laying on. He grunted, and slapped the offending piece of paper, which floated to the floor with such grace, that Dean couldn't help but find himself staring. It sliced through air like scissors, moving in the wind that was coming from the open motel window. It spun in a few slow, lazy circles, before lightly landing on the floor near Sam's boots.

It took him a few moments, but he managed to come out of reverie, albeit reluctantly, for the calm and piece of mind, and the act of just BEING, with nothing else to do was a rare experience, and every second should be savoured greedily. He closed his eyes and sighed wearily, resting his head in his hands.

Echoes of a lost time and place wandered into his conscious, and he found himself remembering an event which he had hoped to never remember again.

FLASHBACK

"Dean? You home?"

The motel door slammed behind an 18 year old Sam Winchester, as he dropped his bag by the door and looked around nervously.

"In the kitchen Sammy"

"It's Sam" he muttered to himself. Dean came out of the kitchen with a smirk on his face.

"Sorry didn't catch that. Did ya say something Sammy?" Sam just sighed and stalked off into the bedroom that he and Dean shared.

Dean walked back into the kitchen where his weapons were spread out across the table and sat down on one of the three chairs. He methodically and with practised ease began cleaning the guns, re-checking and reloading them with ammo. One never knew when you might need a gun in this life, and it was always better to be prepared than dead. Chapter three paragraphs four in 'John Winchester's guide to hunting.'

The low rumble of an all too familiar engine brought Dean out of his drifting state, and Sam out of the bedroom, his hair tousled and messy from when he had been getting changed.

Sam looked at Dean confused. "I thought he wasn't coming back until tomorrow?"

Dean was just as surprised as Sam was. Now that they were older, his dad was normally late back, choosing to stick around for a day after the hunt was finished. He knew that Dad never came home straight away because he was always messed up after a hunt, gashes in his legs, extensive bruising on his stomach, so he stayed and stitched everything up so that he and Sam wouldn't see. But Dean did see. He always saw, especially when it involved family. But Sam didn't see. Not because he was ignorant, no Sam was anything but. Sam never saw because Dean didn't want him to see. Not yet anyway. And Dean could be very persuasive when he wanted to be.

The engine died, and Dean quickly did a mental checklist. Sam alive and safe-he looked up-check. His eyes flittered over everything in the room, and his brain ran through everything John had told him to do while he was away. Check and check.

Feeling a little more relaxed, he braced himself for his fathers entrance. Even stitched up his dad could look a mess. Heavy footsteps could be heard walking up the steps leading to motel room. They stopped, and the world stopped with them, before the door creaked open, and from his position in the kitchen, Dean would see Sam tense up, and grim look on his face, his forehead scrunched up in a frown that seemed to want a permanent place there, with the amount of times he had seen it there in the last few months.

This couldn't be good. He placed his glock on the table and walked out into the hallway, keeping his gasps and screams under control and safely locked away in his heart, to be used later to take out his anger on an evil son of a bitch. While his entire being screamed at the sight, his mouth worked on auto-pilot.

"Sam go and get me a warm cloth"

Sam immediately turned and entered the bathroom. Dean took the opportunity and quickly whispered "Where?" to his dad. John let his head drop in resignation and said quietly "stomach"

He nodded and took his dad's duffel and put in his room. When he came back Sam was standing impatiently with a luke warm cloth in his hands, a worried look in his eyes, which he tried to disguise, but failed miserably. Upon seeing Dean, Sam hurried over and handed the cloth to him.

"Thanks Sam. Go and do your homework"

Sam's look of barely disguised worry turned into indignant anger in a nanosecond. "Dean I'm not-"

"Sam." Dean's eyes bore into Sam's. He was saying everything without saying a word. "Go. Now"

Sam looked as if he was going to say something, but then thought better of it, and dejectedly went into his bedroom without a backward glance.

Dean sighed and ran a hand over his face, and looked over to where John stood leaning against the kitchen doorframe. His eyes were barely open, one arm was wrapped around his stomach defensively, and the other was pinching the bridge of his nose. Bruises marred his skin, creating blue, black and purple patterns that made bile rise to Dean's throat. Striding over to his dad, he gently led him into his bedroom and laid him down on the bed, the gauze and alcohol already placed on the bedside table, ready and waiting. Best to be prepared right?

END OF FLASHBACK

Dean glanced up, his eyes making everything blurry from when he'd pressed them into his eyes. Sam had moved. Not moved as just moved his head a centimetre. He had literally moved. When he had laid Sam down on his bed last night (early this morning) he had been on his back. Now he was a mass of tangled limbs and bed sheets, with the main duvet having been mercilessly thrown on the floor in a heap.

But even as he looked now, Dean could see Sam was still moving, his eyes fluttering wildly under his eyelids, and sweat glistened everywhere on his body, his tee was no longer blue, but an almost black. Worried and slightly alarmed, Dean warily stood up and crossed the short space to his bed.

Now being closer, Dean could see that Sam was muttering under his breath.

"Please don't hurt me anymore. I promise I'll be good. Please don't leave me."

Dean's heart clenched painfully, and without thought, he sat down on the bed and leaned in closer, gently brushing the locks of hair that were plastered to his forehead out of the way.

"Shhhh. Sammy it's alright. Wake up."

But Sam refused, and his whimpers of protest only got louder, and as Dean watched, almost in slow motion a single tear escaped from his Sammy's eye, rolling down his cheek, and dripping onto the pillow, turning it a darker shade and spreading through the tatty cotton.

"Please dad. Don't hurt me anymore."

Dean's heart stopped.