A/N: This one is for angela, who requested "teen Sam interrupting a burglar in the house they are staying at, Dean and John asleep upstairs. Dean and John come down and rescue him." Thanks for the request! In this one, Sam will be thirteen and Dean, seventeen. Thanks to mb64, lilliannaelizabeth, judyann, mandancie, and BranchSuper for your recent reviews. And as always, I don't own Supernatural, for entertainment purposes only.

Chapter 7

The sound was quiet, barely loud enough for even the heaviest of sleepers to hear. But to a hunter, well prepared for anything to make unwanted appearances in the night, even the softest of sounds could be heard, so long as they were unfamiliar. To survive on the hunt meant to have a keen sense of hearing, something thirteen-year-old Sam had learned from the moment he had first fired a gun.

And so, at the sound of rustling in the downstairs of their latest rented home, Sam's hazel eyes snapped open, his fingers carefully sliding under the pillow for the knife he kept for emergencies. Another thing John Winchester had taught both of his boys: always be armed. Carefully, so as not to alert the intruders, Sam pulled out the blade and pushed aside his blankets, tiptoeing to the bedroom door. He debated waking his brother and father, warning them of any potential danger; but last night's hunt had been a tough one, and John and Dean had gone home exhausted. Sam, having been recovering from a rather bad case of the flu, had been asked to sit it out, and had slept most of the day away. He would definitely be more alert than the others. His only concern, to be honest, was his constant sniffling. Immediately he regretted not having taken the decongestant his father had left him.

Quietly, Sam turned the knob, grateful that the heavy door opened without a sound. So far, so good. Clutching his knife, Sam made his way down the hall, past the room where Dean was snoring softly. Normally, it bothered Sam to have his own room, having shared one with his brother practically as long as he could remember. Very rarely had the brothers been separated in thirteen years, even by something as mundane as a few walls and a hallway. And as he heard another noise from downstairs, he again began to regret having his own private space. Because if he had been sharing a room, Dean would have certainly awakened. And as much as he wanted his brother to rest, Sam was suddenly nervous to be making his way to potential danger alone.

Come on, he told himself, swallowing the anxiety that was building in the pit of his stomach. You're a Winchester. You've been on enough hunts with Dean and Dad. No problem. But as the teen crept down the stairs, holding his breath that they wouldn't creak with each step, he very quickly began to question his bravery. Can't be scared, he told himself, to be scared is to let your guard down. Be always on your guard. Never show fear.

Finally Sam had reached the final step, his eyes long adjusted to the darkness. He could see shadows in the corner of the room, rummaging through drawers, tossing papers carelessly around the room, obviously looking for something. Holy crap, these guys aren't supernatural! Sam's eyes widened at the realization. They're human! They're just burglars! And suddenly the boy froze, the weapon slipping from his hands. Monsters, he could do. He'd, to borrow Dean's phrasing, ganked his fair share in the past year, even if he had had his brother's help. But this? Humans?

Suddenly a crash startled Sam from his reverie; the knife he had been clutching had fallen to the hardwood floor, the sound of metal on wood reverberating through the home. Equally startled, the burglars turned, the beams of their flashlights landing on the suddenly very frightened boy. "Shit, Bob, we've got company," one muttered, tugging rather uncomfortably at the ski mask covering his face.

"Well, don't just stand there, dumbass. Get him!"

And that was all it too for Sam to snap back to reality. The hours of training were suddenly paying off, and Sam quickly dodged one of the burglars, landing a solid kick to the ankle; the intruder winced in pain. Undeterred, the young Winchester dodged again, this time planting a well-aimed foot into the guy's nether regions. "Next time, don't mess with Sam Winchester," he grinned, bending down to reach for his knife.

That one mistake. That was all it took for Sam Winchester to lose his fight. There was a sharp pain, then darkness as the boy slid into unconsciousness, his weapon once more sliding to the floor.

XXX

Dean sat bolt upright in bed, his heart pounding in his chest. He'd heard a noise from downstairs, one that definitely didn't sound friendly. He knew the difference between friendly and foe: the familiar noises of one sneaking into the kitchen for a late night snack and the foreboding ones of potential danger. Without hesitation, he reached for his gun, crept out of the bedroom.

Sam's door was wide open.

"Shit." Quickly the teen crept to his father's room, not surprised to see that the unsettling noises had awakened John Winchester as well.

"Sammy's not in his room," he whispered, and John nodded, obviously trying to push back the anxiety that was quickly overwhelming him. He was a hunter, dammit. He couldn't lose his cool. For all he knew, Sam was just downstairs getting a glass of water. But at the sound of struggles emitting from the living room, both Dean and John Winchester realized that the boy was in deep trouble.

"Cover me," John signaled, and carefully made his way downstairs, Dean following quietly, gun drawn. He tried to swallow the ever present fear that something had happened to his little brother. It was Dean's job to protect him, to keep him safe, and now there was a good chance that he was in serious trouble, maybe even hurt. If anything were to happen to him, he'd never forgive himself. Should've woken up earlier. Should've gone downstairs before Sammy. Christ, he's just a kid…

No. He needed to snap out of it, pay attention. He wouldn't be able to help Sam by feeling sorry for himself. Drawing a deep breath, he finished his descent, eyes peeled in the darkness for any signs of struggle. Sure enough, the living room looked ransacked. "Shit," Dean heard his father mumble. The teen looked down, trying to control the anger that was now threatening to swallow the fear…

…And nearly tripped on the knife on the floor.

"Dad," Dean whispered, fighting off the nausea and panic. "It's Sammy's knife." The teen bent to pick it up, sliding it carefully in his boot. He could see the faint light emanating from the kitchen, could hear the faint moans of one slowly regaining consciousness. Sam was alive, Dean was sure of it. He turned to his father, once more signalling to his son to follow his lead. John would circle around the house, take the back door, while Dean covered the living room entrance. Resisting the urge to just barge into the kitchen, Dean waited as John carefully snuck out the front door and around to the back porch, weapon drawn and ready to shoot. But he did carefully peak through the partially open door. To Dean's relief, Sam seemed to be fine, but was secured to a kitchen chair by heavy ropes, his head still lolling to the side as he fought off unconsciousness. And to his surprise, he noticed that the culprits were not the typical foe.

Holy fuck, they're human! The thought that humans were after his little brother surprisingly bothered him more than had it been some supernatural fugly. Because at least those creatures had some sort of purpose behind what they were doing, or at least a sort of legit reason; survival, unfinished business, whatever. But these guys were fucking people! Demons I get. People are crazy. Dean looked up, saw his father peering in through the window, nodding his head. It was go time. About damn time. Heart pounding, Dean made his way into the kitchen, weapon drawn. "Drop it."

"Shit." Bob, who had been covering Sam while his partner rummaged through the kitchen on his quest for valuables, immediately reached for the butcher knife in his pocket; not fast enough. The echo of a gunshot startled Sam awake as Dean fired a well-aimed shot at the intruder's hand, the knife falling harmlessly to the floor. Bob's partner was immediately to his rescue, but not before John, who had by now barged into the room, knocked him from behind; his body crumpled to the floor, his head cracking against the edge of the stove. "That'll teach you to not mess with John Winchester, motherfucker," he spat. Another groan of pain, and John knew that Dean had done a number on the other guy.

"That was a mistake," he heard his son hiss, the usual light tone replaced by something fearfully menacing. "You see, that kid in the chair? That's my baby brother. And when he was little, my dad told me to keep an eye on him. Look out for Sammy. And you just made me almost break that promise." Another groan as Dean kicked Bob in the side. "Nobody messes with my brother. Got that?" No response from the burglar, who had finally succumbed to Dean's attack. Giving him a final kick for good measure, he quickly rushed to Sam's side, snapping open the binds with his brother's knife.

"You ok, Sammy?" The boy nodded, wincing in pain. "Just a headache, Dean." The elder brother gave Sam a once over, just to be certain, and satisfied that the kid wasn't going to pass out again, pulled aside the binds and helped him out of the chair. "You're good, little brother. You'll be fine." He pulled him close, relishing in the fact that Sam was alive and well, while John took care of Bob and his accomplice. Sam remained quiet as the men were secured with rope and drug out of the house; an anonymous tip to the police would be called later, but for now, the Winchesters had no intentions of bringing the cops to their current address. It wasn't until the place was secure, Sam sitting at the table with a glass of warm milk and a roast beef sandwich that John's wrath began to surface.

"What were you thinking? You should've woken us up! It's a wonder you weren't seriously hurt! For godssake, Sam, you're still only a kid. What would've happened if your brother and I weren't here to bail you out?"

"Dad," Dean warned, watching Sam's face crumble at his father's harsh words. Oblivious, John continued.

"You could've been killed."

"Dean was hunting a lot younger than I am now," Sam protested, not looking up from the half eaten sandwich. He couldn't face his father, not now.

"That's beside the point."

"C'mon, Dad, leave him alone. He's been through a lot already."

"Not now, Dean." John turned to the boy, anger suddenly replaced by fear. "You're my son," he said softly, placing one hand on Sam's trembling shoulder. He opened his mouth, the three words he and his firstborn had such trouble saying almost slipping from his lips, but instead he nodded, blinking away tears. Sam nodded in understanding, his own hazel eyes bright. "Yessir," he said softly. "I'm sorry, Dad." Turning to his brother: "Dean, I'm sorry. I thought I could handle it. I didn't know…"

"I know," Dean said softly. He had been equally pissed once the terror had settled. John was right, the kid shouldn't have gone down there alone. The night could have ended a lot worse. Dean closed his eyes, shuddering at the possible outcomes. But seeing the look of pain in the boy's eyes, not from his physical ailments but the hurt of knowing he had worried his beloved big brother, it was too much. And, Dean had to admit, he was proud of the kid, too. He was willing to defend his family when most thirteen-year-olds were thinking of girls and video games. He gently cupped his hands in the boy's chin, smiling affectionately at him. "I know." And looking at the love and pride in his brother's eyes, Sam knew that he could always count on his older brother.

In more ways than one.