Wow, thanks for all the great reviews! :) Keep them coming!

I decided that this was far too mean of a cliffhanger to leave you at! :)

Dean shook Sam's body, tears in his eyes.

"No," he mumbled. "No." He couldn't lose his brother too. Not so soon after losing John. He didn't deserve to be the only one left living. He wasn't worth it. Bobby knelt beside him.

"Is he breathin'?" He asked softly. Shaking Dean checked, while also feeling for a pulse.

"Yeah," Dean said softly. "Yeah, he's still breathing. He's still alive." Relief washed over him, giving him momentary hope. Sam was still alive. There was still hope.

"We'll get him back to our place," Bobby told Dean. "See if I can stitch him up. If not, we'll go to the hospital. It's best that we hunters stay out of those places the best we can, though. The doctors and the cops, they always ask too many damned questions."

Dean nodded, firmly agreeing with the elderly hunter's opinion. Quickly he scooped up his brother, the knife still in him. Bobby said it was best to leave it in. While it was painful, it kept Sam from losing to much blood.

Dean was shaking as he climbed into the backseat of the Impala, allowing Bobby to drive. He was too concerned for his brother's safety to notice how unusual that was.

Bobby arrived at his place in record time. Even Dean was impressed, though he didn't say anything. They carried Sammy to the kitchen table and Bobby cleared the junk that was on it. Then he ripped open the shirt. The chest was drenched in blood. In better light Dean was also able to really see how bruised Sam's face was.

"Jesus," Bobby muttered. "How many jumped him?"

"I don't know," Dean growled in a dangerous tone. "But whoever did it, when I found out who they are there will be hell to pay." He tightened his fists as he said that.

Sam moaned and they stared at him sharply, but the young man did nothing else.

"You're not gonna want to see me stitching up your brother," Bobby warned Dean. "I suggest you turn your back."

Muttering Dean obeyed, knowing that Bobby was right about that. He really didn't want to see Sammy's blood spilling out of him. After what seemed like hours later Bobby had finished taking out the knife and stitching up the large gashing wound that was across the chest.

Finally he was finished.

"Will he recover?" Was Dean's first question and Bobby nodded.

"He well, but he'll be bedridden for a while. Not only were his ribs broken, but so's his arm and leg. I'll have to make a cast for both of them. And I bandaged the ribs. It'll be best if he doesn't move very much. He's going to have someone watch over him. He's not really going to be able to sit up, so he won't be able to feed himself well and he'll need someone to help clean him up after he goes to the bathroom. Don't worry, I'll get something for that as well."

"I'll do it," Dean said quickly, most of the anger fleeing from him. At least for a while. Bobby nodded solmenly.

"I thought you would," he said softly. With Dean's help they moved Sam into the guest room. It wasn't fancy and it was more of a storage area but Bobby made sure they had room. Dean sat down nex tto the bed, determined not to leave his brother's sight.

"I shouldn't have left you alone, Sammy," he whispered. "Not even after our fight...it's still my responsbility to look after you, and for that I'm sorry." He shook his head. "I'm so sorry for failing you," he whispered. "I wanted to hate you so much, but I can't. Even after this I just...I can't hate you Sammy. I just can't."

Sam moaned at his touch and his eyes fluttered open. The first thing he saw in his blurred vision was Dean.

"Dean?" He whispered.

"Sammy?" Dean sat up sharply. "Don't try to sit up, Sammy. You're ribs are broken. And you have a wound on your chest." He sighed. "You're in pretty bad shape," he admitted. Sam blinked, adjusting to his surroundings.

"What happened?" He asked softly.

'You tell me," Dean said quietly. "You took off on us, Sammy. When I found you, you were bleeding to death in the alley."

Sam shuddered in memory of the punches and the stabbing. He closed his eyes, tears fell.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he mummbled. "For shooting Dad. I...I didn't mean to! I swear..."His voice broke and Dean's eyes widened.

"You're worried about that?" He shook his head. "Sammy, you should just be worried about getting better."

"But you hate me," Sam muttered. "I know you do. I don't deserve to live anymore, for killing dad."

Dean stared at him.

"Sam," he said slowly. "Did you fight back when you were attacked? Or did you allow them to beat you up?"

Sam said nothing. But that silence said everything. Dean closed his eyes, careful not to lose his temper.

"I know I've been hard on you lately, Sammy," he said. "And this...this will take some time to heal. I understand that. For both of us. But you shouldn't try and kill yourself over it."

"You can't look at me the same way anymore, can you?" Sam challenged Dean and Dean didn't respond, not knowing how. "I thought so," Sam said. He noticed an old looking gun that had fallen to the floor next to his bed when Bobby had picked up some boxes from the nightstand. He was careful not to mention it.

"I know you hate me," Sam added. "Right now you're worried about me, but when I'm well you'll go back and hate me again. And I don't blame you. I shot dad. I deserved to get beaten up. I only wish that they..."

"Don't say it," Dean snapped. He shook his head. "Aren't I supposed to be the self loathing one in the family here?" Sam didn't respond. Deam sighed, frusteration. That old anger was creeping up inside of him. He should leave before he lost it. Sam always knew how to push him.

"Look, maybe I should leave you alone for a few moments," he said quietly. Sam nodded eagerly, still thinking of the gun. At first suicide seemed like the easy solution. Now it seemed like the only solution. He couldn't look at Dean's face. Sure Dean said he didn't hate him, but Sam could see the truth in his brother's eyes. And he couldn't stand it.

"I'll get you some dinner," Dean decided and left. As soon as he was gone, Sam managed to reach to the floor with his good hand and picked up the forgotten gun. He didn't have much time. Carefully, trying to control the shaking of his hand, he raised the gun and pointed it to his mouth and fired...

Yes, I realize that is an even more evil cliffie, but I couldn't resist! It's a definant way for me to get reviews! :)