A/N: That's all, folks!

There's always dreadful stories, the worst fairytales and even sometimes stories in the Bible or history books, where someone has to choose between two people they love. Where someone is going to die if someone else is going to live. A choice has to be made and Sam always thinks, he's Dad's son, so he should probably pick Dad, but when it comes down to it, really, Sam thinks he'd have to pick Dean.

And then he feels guilty, 'cause Dean would hate him for that, would probably pummel him to the ground and say something that, underneath the shouting, really sounds like, you don't ever pick me, Sam, you never pick me.

Dean would want Sam to let him die.

At least, one part of Dean would. The part that clicks its heels for Dad and cocks guns with a sneer and a hard-eyed soldier's stare. That Dean chooses death as the only way to glory, every time.

But that's not Sam's Dean.

And Sam's Dean doesn't want to die.

For half of half a second, Sam is stock-still on the ice, too still to even wobble on his skate blades. Dad is crawling to the safety of the unbroken plane, and the water is splashing and gurgling like a living thing. But Dean and the sceadugenga have vanished, just after Dean swung the chain around the creature's neck.

Sam shouldn't blame Dad for getting to safety—it wouldn't benefit anyone to dive into those murky depths. But Sam blames Dad, he always does, he's so angry and so afraid that he stays still, and then he springs into action. Because someone has to save Dean. Someone has to think, and Sam may not want to be the one to out-shoot and out-punch the rest of his family, but he's always wanted to be able to out-think everyone.

Bore it bitterly, he who bided in darkness,

That light-hearted laughter loud in the building

Greeted him daily; there was dulcet harp-music,

Clear song of the singer.

He is angry, Sam realizes suddenly. The music drives him mad.

And suddenly, he knows what he must do.

He doesn't think much of the ice. Doesn't think of the chill in the air, or Dean, desperate for air. He can't. He races for the Impala, jerks open the familiar weight of the door, fumbles for the keys. They're in the ignition, they're always in the ignition. Dad likes to make a quick getaway.

Sam forces the engine to life, shaking with adrenaline and the rush and rumble of the car's roar. He switches on the headlights, full blaze, and grabs the first tape he can find.

AC/DC howls over the speakers.

God, Sam prays, because Sam believes, Sam has to believe, don't let him die.

One awful moment passes. Then Dean comes flying out over the ice, and the monster follows. It crawls and writhes with rage. Sam watches as it stumbles to its feet. It seeks footing on the broken ice. It seeks him. Sam locks the doors of the Impala, like that's going to do anything.

In the shine of the headlights, he sees that Dad is on his feet. Dean is still unmoving, though, and Sam feels his throat clench.

The sceadugenga, arms swinging at its foul sides, has left the ice. Its eyes gleam like green fire. It's never seen a car before, Sam guesses. Doesn't know that it's the boy inside it needs to kill to make the sounds of revelry end.

Doesn't know yet.

It looms over the front hood, and Sam waits only one more second before he floors the gas. All seven feet or so of the sceadugenga fall beneath the sleek black nose of the Impala.

Sam is trembling in the front seat, hands on the wheel. He's known how to drive since he was thirteen years old, but he almost never takes the helm. It's all of theirs, to be sure, but it isn't Sam's like it is Dad's or Dean's. Still, he knows it's his job to save them.

There is the screech and groan of metal, and Sam feels himself being lifted. Heavy as these tons of steel are, they won't be enough to keep a primordial being down.

A figure dashes in front of him. It's Dad. He has the blessed chain in hand. And he's down in front of the Impala's hood. There is a moment's choking, gargling—and then a tearing sound.

The Impala settles, knocking Sam's teeth together.

Dad raises Grendel's head for Sam to see, because it's Dad, he does that kind of thing. And Sam finds himself thinking, stupidly, Beowulf only took Grendel's arm.

Then he thinks, Dean.

The fight is over but sometimes what's worse is what comes after.

Sam feels his heart dropping like mercury in cold weather, cold like it is now. He is so weary, bone-weary, the kind of slump and tremors that only come with awful fears. His wits saved the day. But maybe it wasn't enough to save Dean.

Dean is still and pale on the ice. His legs and arms look tangled. Sam will check for breaks, but first he has to check for breathing. Sam tugs off his gloves, reaches to pump Dean's chest with air. The rough ice bites through the threadbare knees of his jeans as he kneels at Dean's side, and his hands come away sticky with Dean's blood.

"Dean," Sam says desperately. Somewhere behind him Dad has thrown aside the monster's head, is meticulously tearing the thing limb from limb. Dad always finishes the job.

Sam doesn't give a damn about the job.

He presses harder, and the pain brings Dean back. Dean, after all, always responds to pain.

"Sam? You—"

"We killed it." Because someone had to, and all Sam's life, someone has meant them. The Winchesters three, the mighty thanes and their dark steed. And Sam hates it. Hates that it ends like this, always, with someone bruised and bloody. Hates that Death nips at their heels like a brace of hungry hounds. Death, the hound to whom they throw bones of danger, and someday, their own bones.

The letter from Stanford is waiting at Pastor Jim's. Someday, Sam is going to leave. Someday, Dean is going to die.

And who the hell knows which comes first.

"Good," Dean says. And he leans back, and he smiles. He smiles for Sam, maybe. But it doesn't do any good. Sam is shrugging off his jacket and trying to press it against Dean's chest, trying to wrap him in it because Dean's shirt is stiff and freezing. Dean's going to die of frostbite if he doesn't die from a monster tearing at his heart.

"Dude," Dean says, really gently, far too gently for someone with blood bubbling through his shredded coat, "Dude, stop crying. The snot's gonna freeze on your face."

Sam runs his hands over his eyes, still shakily. He hadn't realized he was crying. Now he's probably smeared blood over his cheeks. He's almost eighteen, goddammit. Eighteen, and he's cried twice in the past day, for very different reasons.

"I just—" and in that moment, he comes closer to telling Dean about Stanford, about his plans, than he has yet. Here they are on the ice, while Dad cuts up the monster, and Dean bleeds dark and steady on the snow—and Sam wants to spill his guts, wants to tell his brother that he's going to betray them.

Dean coughs wetly and grimaces in pain. That's all it takes for Sam to snap to (better than he does when Dad orders him) and help his brother up. "You can walk?"

"Yeah. Just—shaky." The last word is bitten off, like Dean's embarrassed. "It got the jump on me, Sammy." As though he's to blame.

"You weakened it," Sam says. "It's over, now."

He says that even though it never really is.

Dean leans on him. Dean's always at his most open and readable when he's hurt, like the injuries that slice him to the bone also slice him to the soul. He has one arm heavy around Sam's neck, leaning on him. They used to move like that when Sam was shorter. It's different now, and yet not.

"Almost there," Sam murmurs. Dad's finishing up. Sam can see the grisly details in the Impala's lights, lights that gleam like eyes.

"Sam," Dean whispers, voice thick, "Are you gonna leave me?"

He was so ready to tell him, a minute ago. But he finds, now, that he can't. There are things that slice you to the bone and there are things that break you. And Sam just—"No," Sam says, digging his fingers into Dean jacket, feeling Dean's blood slick and warm against his cold skin, "No, I'm never going to leave you."

Dean stops short and tilts his head to look at Sam. Maybe it's because he's in pain, but suddenly, there are tears in Dean's eyes too. "Sammy," he says, and he doesn't add anything more, because they both already know that Sam is lying.

"Dad's coming," Sam says. "We've got you."

And the words taste bitter in his mouth.

Dean spends most of the next few days laid up on the couch. He's cold and feverish at first. They have to pile every blanket in the house on him, and Dad changes the bandages on his chest every day. Dean won't be able to be back to his full strength for a while, but he's young. They're both so young, Sam thinks. They always get better.

After a bit, Dean complains and bitches a bit, and even though it's still early he manages a grin when Sam brings him a stack of Sports Illustrated for his birthday.

"No swimsuit issue?"

"While I'm keeping you company? No thanks."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Prude."

Sam cocks an eyebrow. "Realist."

When he's not fussing over Dean—though he won't admit that it's fussing—Sam helps Dad load up the Impala. They're heading out. Only rented for a couple weeks.

Sam won't miss Fly Creek, with its treacherous waters. But he guesses he wouldn't mind going somewhere they could skate, somewhere that has pine stands that wave like proud banners in the wind.

Dad makes him drop the skates in the Goodwill box, though, the day they head out.

"We're going to South Carolina," Dad says, with a shrug, like none of this will matter a day from now. "You won't need them there."

Sam bites down on a retort and only curls his lip when Dad turns away.

When they head out, Sam takes the front seat so Dean can stretch out in the back. They haven't talked about the money Sam got at the bar, the afternoon of the hunt. They certainly haven't talked about that shiny cream-colored envelope at Pastor Jim's.

They're Winchesters. They don't really talk about anything.

The chain, Dad coiled and tucked in a corner of the trunk. Might come in handy, he said, though Sam was disgusted by the green slime still clinging to the links.

The guns, they cleaned and stowed away. Dean, they patched up.

It's a hunter's life, and Sam hates it as much as he knows it. He knows it well. It is, after all, all he's ever known.

There are snatches of Beowulf in his head. There is Metallica on the speaker.

There are the voices of his father, his brother, and the voices in his head.

He shuts it all out and leans against the cool windowpane, forcing himself to sleep. He does not want to think of any of these things.

Because Sam is going to California, and he tells himself he will not need them there.