A/N: Oddly enough, even though I let this story fall aside, I'm still getting a review here or there...:D So here it is, the next installment, far, far too late. I promise, I haven't given up... I jsut had really... realllly bad writer's block.

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I was ten the first time I shot to kill.

Ten years old, with my gun clutched in sweaty, unwavering hands.

Ten years old faced with a snarling demon crouched over the prone form of my father.

It was the first hunt I'd been allowed to accompany him on, a simple investigation really, but I learned fast that nothing was ever simple. Not in our line of work. What was supposed to be a general recce of a local forest became a lesson in survival.

It was a leathery demon, long limbs ending in wickedly sharp claws, short on facial features, but the eyes... I would never forget the eyes. Blazing red like the very fires of hell flared up behind those orbs.

It came out of nowhere, and it came fast, dropping from the trees and overcoming my father within seconds. He didn't even have time to fight back. The creature just dragged him away, leaving me there a scared little boy.

I called out for him, as much a reflex as in fear.

The demon looked up, catching me in those flame red eyes. It opened it's jaws, revealing razor edge teeth, and I swear it licked it's lips in anticipation.

Two for the price of one.

It charged.

I shot.

I used a full clip on that bastard to make sure, afraid my dad would berate me for wasting bullets. But all he said when he woke up, was that I'd done good.

I thought that's what family meant. That you had each other's backs.

Our view was slightly more askew than the average family, I guess.

We weren't much for celebrations, for holidays and birthdays. We showed our love by saving each others lives, by stitching each other's wounds.

It's what we did.

It's how I knew, waking from a nightmare, that Sam was still there.

Only... he wasn't.

I woke lashing out with cramped fingers, clawing at the bedclothes, expecting to feel the weight of him sitting exactly where he had been when I'd fallen asleep.

But he wasn't.

I wanted to cry, but I'm too much of a man to cry over something like that. God, I'd never hear the end of it. Knowing him, Sam would make some clever allusion to some chick flick I'd never even seen, but would soon be nicknamed after.

Brothers.

The thought made my chest hurt even more, my throat closing around a lump I didn't remember having formed. Because what would I do without him? What the fuck was I going to do without him?

It's funny how the big thoughts come to you in moments like that. Stupid silly moments, where you're sick in bed, or making coffee and thinking how horrible it is to pour into only one cup. To wash your meager wardrobe at the local Laundromat and have no one to pass the time with.

I looked at the opposite bed, and he wasn't there either.

I didn't panic this time.

Some things you have to have faith in, right?

I knew he wouldn't leave me like this.

No, he'd wait till I was healed up, barely a hint of a scar showing, and then he'd announce he was leaving again.

I tried to sit, mentally cursing myself for being such a selfish bastard. I was fine, I was dealing with it, but hell if it wouldn't take some time to get used to. I'd never be okay with Sam leaving, but I knew I had to accept it. For him, if not for sake of my sanity.

Struggling against the oddly icy burning in my chest, I felt the room tilt and spin around me, taunting me.

I didn't remember getting up.

I didn't remember passing out.

The last thing I knew I was rocketing from a hellish nightmare into a hellish reality, the last traces of the dream vanishing in a swirl of smoke almost as soon as I opened my eyes.

Sam was standing over me, gripping me by the shoulders, and shaking me.

Hard.

I protested with a grumble and fought to pull away from him, blinking in the bright light.

"Dean, are you with me?" he asked.

I didn't answer him right away, trying instead to figure out why I was in the bathtub, half naked and freezing my ass off.

"Dean?" he asked again, more insistently.

For a brief moment, I wanted to hug him. He was back, he hadn't left me after all. And even though I knew he hadn't, some part of me took hold of that fear, and didn't let go.

"Sammy," I said, reaching up and grabbing his shoulder, satisfied at the feel of his shirt beneath my fingers. Real, tangible, Sam.

He shot me a worried look.

"Dean, you're burning up," he said, gently removing my hand. "I found you on the floor."

"Where -?" I asked, and couldn't finish, my mouth too dry to finish.

"I went to get ice," he said, then smiled ruefully. "I guess I should have gotten more."

I looked down into the tub and spotted a few pieces of half melted ice still lingering in the cold water that surrounded me.

"You really scared me, Dean," he said softly. "I was only gone a minute... you just had to wake up then."

A shiver racked my body.

"Here," he said, sticking something in my mouth.

In surprise, I noted the thermometer from the first aid kit, the most rarely used item in our stores, and allowed him to place it under my tongue.

"I know you're cold," he said apologetically. "I just need to make sure your fever's gone down some."

I stared dumbly at the plastic sticking out of my mouth.

"God, you look like hell," he said. "I should have been more careful."

I shivered again, and bit down hard on the thermometer, which barked out a series of beeps in response.

Sam retrieved it and stared hard at the display, then me, reaching out to place a hand on my forehead.

I tried hard not to lean in to the contact, desperate for an anchor to reality.

"Damn," he spat, and shoved the thermometer onto the edge of the sink. "103... you're not out of the woods yet, but it's better that nothing."

He retrieved a towel from the rack, and draped it around my shoulders, pulling me to my feet with little effort. I tried to get my feet under me to help, but he seemed to have it under control, and truth be told, I wasn't sure I could do much anyway. I gave up and let him lead me back to the bed, sit me up, and towel me off.

Too sick to even care that my brother had to take care of me like I was a baby, I made no fuss when he dressed me in clean pair of pajama bottoms and tucked me away beneath the covers to ward off the cold that, despite my fever, had seeped into me.

He let out a deep breath and ran his hands over his face, yawning.

Craning my neck, I saw the clock on the night stand boldly proclaiming it damn near dawn.

My mind whirled, trying to figure out what Sam was thinking going for ice at this hour. Or, maybe I needed to ask exactly how long I'd been out of it. Or maybe I just needed to stop thinking...

"Sammy?" I croaked.

In an instant, he was at my side, all mother-hen and big brown eyes.

Stupid kid.

"What is it?" he prodded when I didn't speak. "Are you okay?"

I stared at him for a long moment, and swallowed hard, not trusting myself to speak.

"I'm..." I hesitated. "I'm proud of you, Sammy."

His mouth fell open. "What?"

"I'm proud of you," I repeated slowly, trying to focus on his hazy image.

"Dean..." he trailed off.

"I...never told you," I said. "I was so mad at you leaving that I just...I never told you. I've always been proud of you."

"Dean, what's there to be proud of?" he asked. "I'm not in school, I'm not -"

I cut him off, gasping softly as I tried to compensate for the fast speech. "All of it, Sammy... not just school. Who you are. Who you can be, will be."

He smiled uneasily.

"Hunting...you might hate it, but you're good," I said, my eyes drooping.

"Not as good as you," he laughed shortly.

"Not better," I agreed. "Just different. Doesn't matter. You can do anything you put your mind to. Just... remember that."

"Not that I don't appreciate the sweet talk," he said, trying to smile. "But, you're not planning on dying on me are you?"

"Not tonight," was all I could think to say.