Since I was gone a couple days I wrote a nice long chapter for ya'll. :) I hope you like it! I hope you'll let me know what you think. Have a great day!

Chapter 9

The sudden movement from the other bed jerked Bobby awake, thanks to years of training himself to be aware of his surroundings even during sleep. It was a useful skill, when one was a hunter.

He sat up quickly, almost reaching for the rifle by the bed out of habit, but then saw that it was only Dean. The boy had sat up just as suddenly—what had woke him—and was slumped forward over his knees now, rubbing his temples.

"Dean?"

"Hmm? Oh…hey Bobby; didn't mean to wake you."

"Well I'm up now. What is it?"

He shrugged. "Nothing."

But in the moonlight filtering through the curtains of the motel room, Bobby could see the sheen of sweat that coated his young charge's skin, and the way his chest was heaving just a little harder than necessary. "Nightmare?" he asked knowingly.

Dean only shrugged again, and pushed the blankets away as he swung his feet to the floor. "I'm fine."

"And I'm a monkey's uncle. Oh wait: I am."

Dean gave him a withering look.

"I'm just trying to help, son."

"Well I don't need it. Thanks, but I'm fine."

"Dean—"

"You don't wanna know, Bobby."

Bobby pushed his own covers away and slid to sit on the edge of his bed as well, facing Dean across the space between the beds. "I saw the things in the house, Dean. I know what Leah did to Sam."

Dean glanced up wearily. "Do you? Do you have any idea what it was like to watch her do that to him?"

"No," he answered quietly. "Maybe you should tell me."

"Are you kidding?" he snapped. Dean visibly calmed himself and smirked a little for cover. "Sorry. You know the whole talking thing isn't me." He stood and headed for the bathroom. Bobby watched him for a moment, concerned, as he leaned over the sink and splashed water into his face. After that he closed the door, but Bobby waited up for him.

When Dean came out he slumped heavily onto his bed from the other side, closest to the bathroom door. "I couldn't do anything," he admitted miserably. "I was friggin' helpless. I couldn't stop her."

"I know you tried."

"Of course I tried," he seethed. "What I did just wasn't enough."

"You did everything you could."

Dean let his forehead drop into his hands, his back to Bobby. "It's still my fault. I should have been able to do more—get him out of there sooner. If I had, maybe he wouldn't be—"

"Is that why you don't want him doing anything?"

He looked over his shoulder in confusion. "What?"

Bobby sighed. "I finally managed to get Sam to tell me what you two were arguing about Thursday. I know he wants to hunt, and you don't want him to."

Dean twisted around on the bed and scowled. "Well don't I have every right to want to keep him safe?"

"Of course. But right now you're only reacting to your own guilt. So stop it. None of this is your fault, Dean. You got him out of there alive, and that's what counts."

"Exactly; I plan to keep him alive," Dean snorted.

"There's no point if keeping him as safe as you want to makes him miserable."

"He can just deal with it. He'll be back in the action soon enough."

Bobby winced silently. "What if he's not?"

"Bobby—"

"I don't want it to come to that either, but what if it does? I wish he'd stay put at my place too—I know it would give him a better chance—but if he doesn't want to, and you make him, you know he'll stay angry with you. Do you really want those to be the last memories you have together?"

He saw Dean swallow, and though it was dark he could just see the sheen of tears in his eyes. "That won't happen," he protested gruffly. "I won't let it happen."

"You think I want it to happen? I'd rather die than let anything happen to either of you boys. But you can't do everything, and neither can I."

"So you want me to just give up?" Dean hissed angrily.

"I didn't say that. I'm not giving up, either. You just need to know that we all have to be prepared for anything. I hate it too, but it's the truth."

Dean punched his pillows and dropped back to stretch out on the mattress again. He didn't answer, but Bobby was sure he was really thinking about it all now.

I'm just sorry you have to.


He could see her face, hovering in front of him, still smirking…always smirking. He tried to blink it away, will it away, but she was still there, and then he felt the cold metal at his back and the dread twisting in his gut. He opened his mouth to scream, to protest, but nothing came out.

Sam gasped and opened his eyes. He wasn't on the table again; he was still in the hospital. His chest didn't even really hurt so much from the sharp intake of air.

He groaned and glanced around, wondering what time it was. The clock told him it was nearly eight already, and bright morning light spread into the room through the blinds over the window across the room, on the other side of the empty bed beside him. It was Saturday now. He'd been here more than a week, and hadn't had a roommate for a moment. Then again, that wasn't so surprising for a small hospital in rural Mississippi, he supposed.

Sam sighed softly and pushed the blankets away. He pulled his legs off the bed and sat on the edge for a moment, trying to decide if he had enough energy to make it to the bathroom. He knew he could walk—or limp, rather. He'd managed that yesterday, when both Dean and Bobby had been out. The leg wound had never been that bad and was healing fine; all he had to do was keep most of his weight off of it, and he could get around. He'd made it to the window and found a wonderful view of the parking lot.

He slowly pushed off from the bed and onto his right leg. He set his injured leg down more carefully, grimaced when he stood, but it held. With the IVs gone, the only thing hindering him was the oxygen tube, which he pulled from around his face and hung on the bed rail before limping into the bathroom. He considered it progress that he got there without his breath rate going up at all; his leg aching was the only consequence.

When Sam stepped out of the bathroom, Bobby was just coming in.

"Sam?"

He winced, caught. "Hey Bobby…"

Bobby's eyebrows went up, but he didn't protest, and to Sam's relief Dean wasn't right behind him. "You're doing better?"

Sam shrugged. "I'm up."

"Good, good." Bobby closed the distance and hugged him, though he hated that it felt like the older man was holding back, being careful with him. Sam returned the embrace as tightly as he could in response, and Bobby seemed to get the message and squeezed a little tighter, clapping him on the back a couple of times when he pulled back.

"It's good to see you up and around."

"I thought you'd kill me," Sam smirked sheepishly.

"Dean will, if he catches you."

"I know," he grimaced.

Bobby glanced down, then seemed to remember that Sam was in patient scrubs now instead of the hospital gown, and the bandages weren't visible. "How's your leg then?"

"Healing, I guess. It doesn't hurt so much anymore. I can limp around with it, anyway."

"Still might need crutches for a few days when you get out of here."

Sam sighed. "Maybe. I wish I knew when that would be, though."

"That's what Dean's checking on. And listen, Sam, you know how I feel about this—about you getting back on the road with your brother. I don't like it either…but I talked to him. I don't know if it did any good, but—"

"Sam, what the hell are you doin' up?"

"That didn't take long," Sam muttered. "Uhm, nothing, Dean. I was in the bathroom."

"Well get your ass back in the bed," his brother scowled. "And put that oxygen back on."

Bobby shrugged and gave him an I told you so look, and Sam rolled his eyes and padded back to his bed. Almost before he was settled Dean handed him the oxygen tube, and he obediently pulled it over his head and settled it above his upper lip to let the two small open ends sit in his nose again.

Almost immediately his lungs worked a little easier, but it wasn't such a big difference anymore. He supposed it would be if he left it out long enough though—that was why there was an oxygen generator in the back of the Impala waiting for him when he left the hospital.

"Really, Dean, I'm fine. I don't need this twenty-four seven. Bennett even said as much," he protested.

"But you're probably better off the more you use it, so while you're sitting here in the hospital right next to it, you might as well keep it in."

If it would make Dean happy... "Fine…" Then he remembered what Bobby had said. "So what did he say this morning, anyway? When can I get out of here?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"That's good news," Bobby nodded.

"You're telling me. I'll be ready to go as soon as you're awake."

"No argument here," Sam agreed. "But—"

"We're still going to Bobby's."

"But Dean—"

He held up a hand for silence, and when he had it he sighed. "Look, we need to, at least for a few days." Dean looked away. "Just give me some time to think, okay?"

Well, it was a start. It was hope.

"Okay…"

Dean nodded and turned for the door again. "I'll go get us something to eat…"

Sam smiled at Bobby when he was gone. "Thanks."

He shrugged. "Don't thank me. I only talked to 'im a little bit—reminded him of a few things. It was up to him to decide to consider it. Thank your brother." Bobby paused, and looked at him for a long moment. "You won't be the only the one that might be making a sacrifice if he ends up lettin' you on the road with him."

"I know…" He crossed his arms uneasily and stared at his lap. "I know the risks, but…you can understand why I don't want to just…stop. Can't you?"

Bobby sighed. "Yeah, I suppose I can."


Sunday morning Dean brought Sam's bag in for him, and while his brother was in the bathroom changing he packed up the things that were still strewn about the room—Sam's jacket, computer, a couple of notebooks…he still had his toothbrush and things in the bathroom with him.

Dean couldn't help casting anxious glances from the empty bed to the bathroom door, still wondering if Sam should really be leaving the hospital yet. It wasn't that he liked being stuck around here for so long, or liked the antiseptic smell of the hospital, or being reminded of Sam's condition by being here. He didn't like any of that all. That part of him would rather have left days ago, but the rest of him wanted whatever was best for Sam. If that meant staying here a few more days, he wouldn't have argued.

One of the nurses had brought in a pair of crutches yesterday afternoon, because Doctor Bennett had suggested Sam stay on them until his leg healed. Sure, he could limp around on his own all right, but Bennett said the less stress the better.

Dean wasn't going to argue with that.

The bathroom door opened and Sam emerged finally, back in jeans, T-shirt, and a cream-and-brown plaid shirt that he looked immensely more comfortable in than the scrubs. He'd taken a shower the night before, so his hair wasn't stringy anymore, and his color was coming back. For the first time in nearly two weeks he looked clean and healthy. Dean let out a relieved breath just to see him like that. It helped add hope to the determination. It felt so much better to see Sam that way that it surprised him; he had to swallow back a sudden lump in his throat.

They would find a way to fix this, and the illusion of health wouldn't be only that anymore. Sam would be fine. He had to be.

Sam must have caught him staring, because he raised his eyebrows as he took the crutches from where they leaned outside the bathroom door. "What?"

Dean shook his head to clear his thoughts, and shrugged. "Nothing." He shouldered past Sam into the bathroom and swept up the things from the small counter that belonged to them. He deposited them in Sam's bag on the chair by the bed, then moved the chair back to the wall where it had been originally and shouldered the bag.

"Come on; let's blow this joint—finally."

Sam smirked and leaned into the crutches to follow him. At their highest setting already, the crutches were barely tall enough for his brother's lanky frame.

Bobby had left ahead of them the previous afternoon—to make sure his place was well-enough stocked to host two hungry twenty-somethings for a while, and get a room ready for them to sleep in—so the brothers were alone when they stopped at the front desk to wrap everything up. They got through it without too much awkwardness, and Dean was feeling successful in having a decent morning until Sam stopped just inside the doors that led out to the parking lot, with an unreadable look on his face.

Dean slowed to a halt and backpedaled to his brother's side. "Hey…what is it?" Sam had been quiet all morning, so he was justifiably surprised at the length of the answer.

"I don't know," Sam sighed. "I know it may sound stupid, but…I guess, while I was in there, I could still pretend it was any other hospital stay and everything would be normal again when we left." He stared out at the parking lot regretfully. "Out there I can't pretend that things aren't different now; that I'm not—"

He stopped abruptly, hands tightening on the handles of the crutches as his jaw worked and he ducked his head to stare at the tile.

Dean felt the familiar twist in his stomach whenever something else rammed home the fact that Sam hadn't finished saying. He took a steadying breath and squeezed his brother's shoulder. "Hey…no giving up, remember? It's not all dark out there."

Sam flashed him a weak, but thankful smile. "Yeah…" He glanced up and out through the doors. "Though that statement would be better served if it wasn't overcast."

Dean snickered. "So my timing sucks."

Sam laughed, and for a moment Dean was suddenly afraid he'd screwed up again, but nothing happened. His brother trailed off and coughed once, but it didn't seem to really hurt him. That was a whole heck of a lot better than last week, so Dean took it willingly and led his brother out to the car.

It was another relief to once again have Sam settled comfortably in the passenger seat of the Impala, but once Dean had shoved the crutches in the back, left Sam's bag in the trunk and climbed in behind the wheel, he glanced uncertainly back at the oxygen generator in the back seat just behind his brother.

"It's a few hours to Bobby's…"

Sam twisted around to see what he was looking at, wincing and pressing a hand to his ribs that weren't quite healed yet. Dean was pretty sure he still had one of those wrap things on underneath his shirts. "I don't need it right now," he said immediately, when he realized what Dean meant.

"You sure? Cause that thing's got like, a big rechargeable battery or something. That was the whole point of getting that model; so you could use it in the car if you needed to, or whatever…"

"For right now, I'm only suppose to use the oxygen at night; that's what Bennett said—at night, and if I'm…having a bad spell, or something." He turned back around and stared out the window. "I won't need it more regularly than that until…later." Later. When it gets worse. When we start to run out of time.

They were already running out of time. From the moment they stepped outside those doors, they were running out of time.

"And using it more often than that now wouldn't…do anything? You know, help any?" Give you any more time?

Sam shrugged. "Maybe a little; not enough to matter. Right now the breathing treatments are keeping everything working well enough."

Well enough. Only well enough, and that would change, eventually.

Dean grimaced and shoved the keys in the ignition. "All right…"

Don't worry about it; let me worry about it. I'll take care of you, little brother. I promise. I'll fix this if it's the last thing I do.


Sam kept his gaze focused out the Impala's window for a while, watching the pine trees, farms, country churches and railroad crossings pass by. Within half an hour they'd passed back through the single intersection of Mize, Mississippi—where there was yet another church. As they neared the next town five minutes later, there were even more.

Somehow, the small, happy crowds of people greeting each other in the parking lots seemed comforting. It seemed like somewhere he'd like to be right now, instead of sitting in the car with nothing to do but wonder whether he was going to live to be 25 or 26.

"Hey…Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"It's Sunday morning."

Dean glanced at him. "No kidding, Sherlock. And?"

"Sunday morning is church," he said slowly.

"For religious people, yeah."

"You don't have to be 'religious' to go to church, you know, once in a while."

Dean looked at him curiously. "What are you gettin' at?"

He looked out the window again. "I don't know…Maybe we should stop."

"At a church?"

"Yeah. Why not? It's almost eleven; services are probably starting soon, most places…"

Now Dean looked really confused, or concerned. Maybe both. "What's gotten into you?"

Sam shrugged. "Nothing. It's just…I don't know. I've been in the hospital for a week. Maybe I need some civilization before we hole up at Bobby's."

"You want civilization, I'll find you a good bar."

He smirked. "Not that kind of civilization." He fell silent, not sure how else to explain himself without sounding any dumber than he was sure he already did. It wasn't something who could explain to Dean. None of the Winchesters had ever been religious by anyone's terms, but Sam did believe in God, mostly. Dean pretty much didn't at all.

"Oh, I get it," Dean said after a moment. "What, is me telling you I'm gonna fix this not enough? You need some church freak to tell you God's gonna make it okay?" he said bitterly.

"What? No, that's not it at all. I trust you."

"Then what's with the church thing?"

Sam sighed. "We're stretched a little thin right now, Dean, in more ways than one. Can't I just…." He gestured pointlessly. "You know, feel like actually going for once? Maybe it would do us both some good."

He wasn't lying; he trusted Dean to do everything he could, and didn't expect any help beyond Bobby and his brother—not from above or anywhere else. Still…that didn't mean he couldn't find a little comfort in faith.

"What kind of good?" Dean made a face and focused on the road. "I don't know, man…I mean, I know you believe in God and stuff, and if that floats your boat, I'm happy for you—"

"Fine, Dean, you don't have to come in. You can sit in the car."

"Well I'm not letting you go in anywhere by yourself…"

"I'm not helpless," Sam snapped.

They were passing into Taylorsville now, and Dean abruptly pulled into an old gas station at the left and jolted to a stop. Across the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly next door were two churches—a Baptist on one corner, and a Methodist on the next.

"Whatever," Dean groused. "Which one?"

"Dude, I don't care."

He wasn't sure, but he thought Dean growled low in his throat before heading across the grocery store parking lot, and pulling around into the lot of the first church, the Baptist one. He stopped by the sign that read First Baptist Church of Taylorsville at the top, and had a message in those slidable letters underneath

"Hey…look at that: pot luck dinner after the morning service today. Visitors invited." Dean turned to grin at him, suddenly in a better mood again. "I'm in."

"Something for everybody, I guess…"

Dean was already watching a group of talkative young women that were heading inside. "You said it."

Sam shook his head as his brother parked the Impala, and thanked heaven for the small things. Dean in a good mood was definitely one of those small things he needed right now.

Dean turned off the car and started to open his door.

"You're coming in?"

"I told you; you're not going by yourself. Come on."

Sam rolled his eyes and got out, but stopped Dean before he pulled the crutches out of the back. "It's not that far."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "And you don't want to draw attention to yourself."

He shrugged.

"Uh huh. Fine. Game plan: we slip in the back, slip back out a few minutes before it's over, and then follow the crowd to the food."

"If you want to stay for the food, why do you want to leave before it's over?"

"I don't wanna be filing out with everybody else. I don't like religious people in my face asking me if I 'know Jesus' or whatever."

"He was a real person, you know. Historical evidence has proved that much."

"Thank you, college boy."

Sam sighed and led the way to the front doors where everyone else was going in—or rather, he would have if Dean hadn't positioned himself so close. His brother all but held onto his arm as they headed inside, apparently worried that his limp would eventually bring an all-out collapse. Sam didn't protest the proximity, because he remembered how much had only wanted to help when Dean was sick.

Dean had shoved him off then, and it had hurt. He didn't want to do the same thing, if he could tolerate whatever Dean was doing. This wasn't so bad…but it was still annoying.

Dean nudged his arms once they got past the greeters at the door, and nodded off to the side where a young family was headed up a narrow set of stairs by the wall. "Hey look, balcony. Less conspicuous." He stopped suddenly and frowned. "If you think you can get up there," he added quietly.

Sam gave him a withering look. "I can get up there."

Thankfully, the short curving stairway had rails, which worked just as well as anything else. He was able to pull himself up without too much trouble or drawing any real attention, but he was out of breath by the time Dean guided him into the short back pew of the left side of the balcony.

The family that had gone up ahead of them was two rows in front of them, and that happened to be the front row. The balcony wasn't very large, and seemed to be something of a novelty. The opposite side of the balcony, on the other side of the soundboard, was filled with elementary and middle school children exchanging stories and candy before the service started.

"Sam?"

Dean studied him worriedly for a moment, but Sam scowled and waved him off as he caught his breath. Satisfied that he was all right, Dean looked out over the crowd, and Sam discovered his brother's ulterior motive. They had a perfect view of much of the congregation from here, and it seemed that the high school youth group and other young people gathered toward the front right in the middle. The group of young women Dean had been eyeing outside was there with the others, of course, to Dean's obvious delight.

"I wonder how many of them are legal," he whispered.

"Dean, we're in a church," Sam growled.

Dean held up his hands in surrender—and went right back to watching them silently. "Just 'cause I came in doesn't mean I'm gonna be paying attention to the preacher," he smirked after a moment.

"Don't embarrass me."

"Yes, dad."

Thankfully, the service started then, and Dean shut up—at least until the senior pastor took the podium to give announcements, and remind everyone about the pot luck dinner after the service.

The man who introduced himself as Brother Frankie—right, Southern Baptist church…all of the pastors were titled Brother—was small and thin, and graying at the temples and the edges of his receding hairline and goatee…but he was wearing glasses, cowboy boots, and a bolo tie with his white button shirt and suit pants.

"Dude, check the wardrobe," Dean whispered. "I like this guy already."

"I thought you didn't like preachers, period," he answered softly.

"I liked Pastor Jim."

"Pastor Jim was dad's friend; he was a hunter."

"Whatever. This guy gets point for coolness, anyway."

Sam couldn't help but smirk a little, but it disappeared quickly when the young mother in front of them turned to raise an eyebrow. He winced.

"Sorry, ma'am…"

Dean took the hint, and remained silent for the rest of the service.

The first twenty minutes was singing, and Sam and Dean stood and sat with the rest of the congregation, but neither opened their mouth. Dean had no interest, and Sam didn't want to hurt anyone's ears. This wasn't the part he'd come for, anyway.

When the thoroughly southern preacher took the podium again for the sermon, Dean seemed to immediately lose any interest in what was going on at the front of the sanctuary, and went back to people watching. Sam tuned in, wondering just what it was he'd wanted out of this, anyway. He wasn't quite certain he knew where the idea had come from in the first place.

What he didn't expect was the almost conversational way Brother Frankie spoke to the congregation—no, not just to his congregation, but to all of them. Somehow the way the man gave his message made him feel included. Sam hadn't really felt included with anyone but Dean very often since he'd left Stanford. Even there, he'd always known he was different, no matter how much he tried to forget it.

That didn't seem to be an issue here.

Sam let his eyes scan the people in the pews below, and realized that he and Dean weren't the only ones in jeans. The congregation spanned from young to old, well-dressed and casual, and most of them were giving the pastor their full attention, and seemed to want to.

Something good can come from anything, the man was saying. God has a plan for everything, and He's always in control. If He was always in control, then why were there demons loose on Earth? Why more and more of them, all of a sudden? Because God allows trials to strengthen us, the preacher answered a moment later. Yeah…sure. If that was true, what was the point of this? Why was he dying? What good was there in that?

But somehow it stuck in his head, and Sam couldn't help but wonder if there was a reason for all of this. Maybe…just maybe there was.

That would certainly be much better to believe than thinking he was going through this for nothing—than thinking that everything their family went through was for nothing. But that was only wishful thinking.

Wasn't it?

Dean nudged him when the man seemed to be winding down, and they quietly slipped back down the stairs into the foyer, and outside. Going down the stairs had been a lot easier than going up, but Sam leaned against the warm brick wall for a moment anyway.

"I'm ready for some food," Dean grinned, clapping his hands together. "After taking an hour of boredom for you, I better get plenty of it, too."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You didn't hear a word the guy said, did you?"

"Ah, I caught some of it here and there, but I don't go in for that stuff anyway, so it don't matter."

"Uh huh."

"What about you? You get your warm fuzzies?" Dean smirked.

He shrugged. "I liked the way the guy preached. I can see why he's in charge here. It was a decent message, even if I don't quite buy it." Sam looked away. "Doesn't mean I don't wish I could believe it."

Dean frowned. "What, all that there's-a-point-to-everything and there's-always-something-good crap?"

"Yeah."

His brother looked at him for a moment, and finally gave him a sincere smile of understanding. "I guess I wish it were true, too." He grimaced. "It'd make the shit we get into a whole lot easier. But it's just not. It can't be. I'm not gonna believe anything good could come out of a lot of the stuff we get into—especially not this," he said, staring at the ground.

There was silence for a long moment or two, until Dean looked up again.

"Come on, let's go get those crutches out of the car. We might still have to stand in line or something."

Sam nodded absently, and they made their way back to the Impala. Behind them the church doors opened and the people from inside began to pour out, all headed for the secondary building beside the main church. Dean had just handed the crutches out to Sam and shut the door when a middle-aged man walked by, tall and sporting a good mustache.

"Well, whadya know," the man said incredulously, stopping. "Never thought I'd see a Chevy Impala out here." He glanced up at the boys. "1967, isn't it?"

Dean's eyebrows went up to his hairline in surprise. "Yeah. It is. How'd you—?"

"Don't look so surprised, boy," the man chuckled. "Out here, even the preacher has a motorcycle gang. We know our classic vehicles. Well, I do."

"The pastor has a motorcycle gang?" Sam echoed.

"Well, he is a pastor. I don't suppose you'd call it a gang. But then again there really isn't any other word for it, after all. Yeah, there's a whole group of us that ride regularly. Some us even have classic Harleys—the real deal."

"Huh." Dean flashed a grin back at his brother, and then turned back to the older man. "You don't say. I gotta hear more about this."

"As long as you're headin' for the food."

"You better believe I am."

Sam sniggered to himself and followed them both to the end of the line, which was already outside the glass doors of what seemed to be a recreation building. The line wound inside through what looked like a tiled kitchen and eating area, bordered by floor-to-ceiling windows that let them see the tables piled with food from here.

"Man, why'd they have to build it like that?" Dean complained. "I'm hungry enough already." He peered in through one of the windows. "Holy crap, that's a lot of food."

"Haven't you ever been to a Southern Baptist pot-luck dinner?" their new companion asked.

"Actually, no."

"We've never been to a Southern Baptist church before," Sam smirked.

"Welcome to both of you, then. Just passing through, I take it?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Dean shrugged. He looked back through the window. "Hey Sam, maybe we oughtta find these things more often. Damn." Then he flinched just a bit and glanced back at the other man. "Oh. Sorry."

He shrugged. "No offense taken." He grinned. "I suppose you two aren't the church-going type, then."

"Not exactly. Oh hey, I'm Dean, by the way." He held out a hand and the man shook it. "This is my brother, Sam."

"Good to meet you, Dean and Sam. You can call me Clark."

"Nice. So what's this about the motorcycle gang…?"

Dean and Clark were soon involved in their own conversation over motorcycles and classic cars, and Sam was all but forgotten. He didn't mind; he was glad Dean had found someone to talk to who shared the interests Sam didn't have in common with his brother.

Sam didn't realized that he'd spaced out a little until someone bumped into him from behind. He spun in surprise, intending to apologize out of habit, forgot he had the crutches to hinder him, and would have tripped flat on his face if the offender hadn't grabbed an arm and a crutch and steadied him while at the same time screeching out a surprised, high-pitched apology.

"Oh I'm so sorry! I wasn't paying attention—"

All he caught at first was a flash of long blonde hair.

"Whoa! I'm sorry, ma'am, I—"

The apology trailed into a giggle. "I'm not a ma'am."

Sam finally had his feet and his crutches under him again, and when he focused he realized it was only a girl, barely middle-school age. "Oh. I'm sorry."

"It's fine. My bad for bumping into you." She frowned up at him, and then glanced down at the leg he was favoring with the crutches. "Are you okay? What happened to your leg?" she asked innocently.

Well he certainly couldn't tell a middle-school girl he'd been shot.

"Oh, uh, I just…fell down a flight of stairs." He had fallen down the stairs to the basement more than once while Leah had them, so he figured it wasn't so much of a lie.

He glanced over her shoulder, wondering who she was with, and found only the rest of a group of youth standing in line together—no parents. He supposed as long as their children were at an event on church property, the parents wouldn't worry about keeping the kids at their sides. That was why no one had jumped in to scold her for being nosy or talking to strangers. Not that she was bothering him.

"I'm sorry; I hope it gets better soon," the girl smiled.

Sam smiled back uncertainly. "Thanks." I hope so too. I hope there'll be a way to make all of it better soon.

"Maybe there's a good reason for it, like Brother Frankie said in the sermon today," the girl said after a moment.

He shrugged. "You think so?"

"I broke my leg once, when I was ten. It hurt, but it was kinda cool after that 'cause my parents made my big brothers do stuff for me. They always bother me and all, but they couldn't do anything mean while I had my cast on or they got in really big trouble. I still had to be nice to them, cause we're supposed to always be nice and stuff, but still—it was cool," she grinned. "Do you have any big brothers?"

"One," he answered, glancing back at Dean.

The girl tilted her head to the side to see around him. "That one?" she pointed.

"Yep."

"Isn't he shorter than you?"

"He sure is, but he still bothers me sometimes, too," Sam smirked.

"Well there you go," the girl said, and straightened, crossed her arms and nodded her head once. "Maybe 'cause your leg's hurt, he won't bother you. That's good."

"I don't know about that," he chuckled. He brought an arm up to his mouth as he trailed off into a cough and winced, and the girl looked at him with concern.

"You okay?" she asked again.

"Yeah, thanks." He'd hoped that one hadn't registered on Dean's radar, but when he glanced back his brother had already turned looking for him. "I'm fine, Dean." Dean gave him a wary glance, but went back to his conversation without further comment. When Sam looked back to the girl, she was smiling.

"See? He's not bothering you now. I think he cares about you a lot."

He smiled a little in return, and knew she was right. "Yeah," he answered, as the annoyance at his brother melted away for now. "I guess he does."

"Jessica, up here!"

The girl looked toward the front of the line quickly. "Oh hey, my parents saved a spot for me!" She jumped out of the line quickly, then glanced back at him. "Nice to meet you…"

"Sam," he answered quietly, a little stunned.

"Nice to meet you, Sam," she grinned. "Don't worry; everything will be okay."

"Thanks…Jessica."

"You're welcome." Then she waved and ran off, and Sam was left wondering if he'd just seen an angel.