Dean woke up, alone.
It was something he had done often in the months since Sam had been at Stanford.
However, he still wasn't used to it.
After years of waking up to a kid snuggled into his side, or a young boy poking him and softly requesting breakfast, or a teen dragging him out of bed to get to school; after all that, learning to wake up alone was difficult.
Waking up in pain, usually meant there would be a terrified pair of hazel eyes waiting to meet him, or a shaggy head resting against his leg, or thin fingers latched onto his own. But he didn't feel any of that now.
Dean sighed, twitching in discomfort, distractedly wondering what the hell had gotten himself into this time, as he felt his side throb. He scrunched his nose up at the rank smell that assaulted his nostrils, and wondered what sort of place he was stuck in that emitted such a strong stench. Dean grumbled, knowing that he would have to open his eyes eventually, though he was in no rush to do so, because he was alone.
He hated it.
When he finally pried his eyelids open and was greeted with the darkness of a cellar, his memories came flooding back. Waking up in the hospital, feeling his heart swell at the sight of the overtired, under-fed, little brother at his side. The quick trip to McDonalds, after which he discovered that his kid was broke and starving. The crash. The Fentons. Sam's torture. Getting shot.
It all came back.
His gaze ravaged the cell, searching for the gangly boy who was supposed to be seated by his side.
"Sam?" He called, not yet aware enough to sensor the fear from his voice.
After Sam had woken up he had insisted that Dean get some rest. He had agreed, because the blood-loss from the bullet wound had left him completely depleted. When he had fallen to sleep, Sam had been right next to him, their shoulders pressed together, he had been able to hear each of the teen's whistling breaths.
Now he was gone.
Dean made to get up, feeling a weight slide off of him as he did so. It was his jacket.
The fucking jacket that Sam was supposed to be wearing.
"Sammy!" He called out again, biting back a groan as he climbed to his feet, twisting the leather coat nervously in his hands.
The cage door was closed, the window across the other side of the room was still intact. It didn't look like the younger man had done as Dean begged him to, and made an escape. Had Hank, or Darrell, or that mindless henchmen of theirs, come and taken his little brother? Had he slept through Sam being nabbed from right under his nose? Had he failed to protect his kid for the hundredth fucking time? Panic was racing through his veins, as he moved as close to the cell entrance as he could, before the chain attaching him to the wall pulled taut.
"Sam!" he shouted, his voice cracking, his dread too strong to disguise. "Where the hell are you?"
He pulled uselessly at his restraints again, studying the closed cage door, as he slid his hand into his pocket.
The key was gone. The key to their cell had vanished.
Sam must have taken it, but where the fuck did he go? And why the hell didn't he wake him first?
The squeal of hinges told him the basement door was being opened. He ignored the pain pulsing through his entire right side as he tried to see who was coming down the steps, and then he heard them.
"Hurry the fuck up."
That was Darrell.
"Bite me."
And that was Sam. A pissed Sam. A pained Sam. He could clearly hear the agony hidden beneath the sarcastic bite. Dean was both relieved that Sam was alive and breathing, and disappointed that the kid hadn't gotten away.
"Sam?" He called out, unable to help himself, when he saw the younger man stumble into view. The younger boy looked up, quirking a smile, which did nothing to veil the pain lining his face.
"Don't worry, Dean. I got your little pet, right here." Darrell slurred, pressing his handgun into Sam's back, forcing him to move faster and nearly lose his balance.
"Hey!" Dean snapped, not liking the weapon in the older man's hand, or the obvious glaze over his eyes. Darrell was clearly drunk, the way he was slurring, but not wasted enough that the gun in his grip wasn't a threat.
"Unlock it, and get your ass back in there." The larger man ordered gruffly, jabbing the barrel of his glock unnecessarily hard into the back of Sam's injured shoulder, causing the thin frame to shudder. Dean could see Sam's jaw clenching, and knew that the younger man was fighting to hold back sounds of anguish. "Hurry it up!" Darrell barked, grinding the firearm into Sam's left shoulder, making him gasp, his knees nearly buckling as his trembling fingers struggled to slide the key into the lock on the cell door.
"Take it easy, asshat." Dean seethed, cursing his restraints and wishing he could get closer when Sam pulled the door open.
"Is that the thanks I get for returning your precious little cunt?"
Sam flinched violently at the vulgar insult, as though it had been a well-aimed strike. The words made Dean's fingers curl into fists, his body vibrating with rage - the need to hurt and the desire to shred Darrell into a million fucking pieces. He didn't think he could possibly feel a more intense level of hatred, until he could do nothing but watch as the Fenton son ripped the key from Sam's hands, and mercilessly shoved the long body into the cage. Sam blindly reached to grab hold of something to halt his fall, but found nothing, because Dean couldn't get close enough to reach the kid – so he dropped, hitting the unforgiving concrete with a smack and a cry.
"You sonuvabitch." He snarled, glaring at Darrell as he fruitlessly reached out for Sam, knowing he wouldn't be able to get close enough to touch him.
The hunter slammed the door closed, and locked it, pocketing the key before glaring over at Dean, not even glancing at his little brother who was curled up and shaking on the floor.
"He was ditching you, you know." Darrell announced, his tone deep and dark, not like Dean had ever heard it before.
The infuriated prisoner didn't give a reaction, because he knew that was exactly what the bastard was searching for.
"He was going to take off. Leave you down here to die. He even locked the fucking cage, keeping you trapped. Leaving you behind to rot, just like he did when he ran off to school. He's a fucking traitor. Your dad figured out as much. When are you going to learn that this little bastard isn't worth a damn thing?"
"If you don't shut your goddamned face right fucking now, I will beat your skull in." If he hadn't been so enraged by the scum standing across from him, Dean would have been shocked by the darkness in his tone, which sounded foreign even to his own ears.
"Everyone heard about John Winchester disowning his youngest for turning his back on the life. No one could figure out where you stood. I'm betting you never had an issue with the little scum. You were probably even happy for the spineless deserter. But what about now, Dean? The kid was slinking off into the night without you. Leaving you to die alone, chained to a fucking wall. He might as well have stabbed you in the back. Again. You still think he's worth fighting for?"
With every filthy lie that fell from Darrell's lips, Sam's thin frame curled tighter into itself; while Dean's glare and need for violence grew; but before he could form a response and tell that man exactly what he could do with his poisonous bullshit, the drunk hunter was clumping back up the stairs.
"Fucking cowardly piece of shit." Dean cursed, his body burning with the desire to teach Darrell a lesson he would never forget, or possibly not live to remember.
He didn't stand down from his defensive position, didn't allow his fingers to uncurl, until he heard the basement door slam shut.
"Sammy." He called out softly, crouching as close to the younger man as he could.
Sam nodded, answering his unspoken question – Dean's tone of voice being enough to display his need to know about his brother's wellbeing.
Sam's good arm shook violently as he leveraged himself up off the hard floor into a seated position.
"Fuck." He hissed, grabbing his left elbow and curling in on himself. Dean knew the kid's shoulder had to be killing him, and was more than a little worried about the state of his ribs after all the activity.
"Come here, buddy. Let me take a look at you." He said, trying not to sound as desperate as he was feeling.
"I'm fine." Sam lied through clenched teeth, his breath coming in shallow whistles as his grip tightened around his injured arm.
"Bullshit. Get your ass over here, Sam." The elder Winchester ordered, his concern hiding behind frustration.
His hurting, beaten, little brother, found the strength to glare at him, the expression telling Dean loud and clear exactly what he could do with his authoritative demand.
"Enough with the look, alright. Just get over here so I can make sure that bastard didn't do any permanent damage."
Sam didn't budge.
"I can take care of myself. I'm not an invalid." He grumbled, eyes on the ground as he kept a tight hold on his busted shoulder.
"Never said you couldn't, and I know you're not." Dean relented, detecting the emotional pain in the younger man's voice. "You're not a traitor either."
Sam's head shot up at the comment, his expression pinched and jaw clenched.
"Or anything else that asshole called you. Don't let that fucker get to you, Sammy." He petitioned gently.
The younger boy looked down, his jaw still clenched as appeared to be in thought, before finally nodding slowly, with a tired sigh and climbing to his feet. Dean observed closely, his hands twitching with the need to help his little brother as he struggled to come to a stand, once he was finally upright – relatively speaking – he started to shuffle closer.
"That's it, buddy. Just a little closer." Dean encouraged.
Sam rolled his eyes, but his shallow breathing seemed to prevent him from expelling the sarcastic retort Dean knew was on the tip of his tongue. It felt like it took twice as long as it should have, but eventually the trembling frame was within reach. Dean stretched out, ignoring the bite of metal into his ankle, and wrapped a supportive hand around his brother's right elbow.
"Come on, kiddo, let's get you settled."
Sam grunted a response as he was guided back to his designated corner of the cell.
"Alright, going down." Dean narrated, keeping a firm grip on the taller man as he eased him onto the ground and propped him up against the wall.
Sam bit down on his lip, groaning in agony as he leaned back, relaxing only a fraction once he was situated.
"Fuck." The injured man cursed again, between clenched teeth.
Dean patted him supportively on the collarbone, just below his good shoulder, as he quickly began to examine him.
"It'll be a bloody miracle if your little adventure didn't jack anything up." He muttered, cringing at the sight of the kid's abdomen and the many colours that covered it.
"Doesn't feel any worse. Everything just hurts."
"No shit." He replied, hating to even think about how much pain his kid was feeling.
"How are you?" Sam questioned, his hand coming up to lift the corner of Dean's shirt, clearly trying to find the bullet wound hidden underneath.
"Better than you." The older boy grunted dismissively, swatting at the long fingers grazing his hip.
"Just let me check." Sam huffed, still tugging at the blood-stained shirt.
"Not now." He snapped, smacking at the searching hands
Sam growled, but relented all the same, dropping his arm back down onto his lap.
"You're bossy." He mumbled, hissing as Dean felt along his ribs.
"Doesn't feel like anything has moved. How's your breathing?" He asked, gently placing his palms on either side of Sam's neck, nudging his chin up so he could get a clear view.
"Throat is still tight, but no worse than it was a few hours ago." He reported, resting his shaggy head back against the wall, reluctantly submitting to the clinical inspection.
Dean's rage was re-ignited at the sight of the black-finger-shaped bruises that wrapped around his little brother's throat.
"When I get my hands on Darrell, I'm going to make him wish he had never been born. I'm going to slaughter that sonuvabitch." He seethed, as he gently traced one of the violent markings with his thumb.
"Okay, simmer down, Riggs." Sam quipped.
Dean calmed a little at the joking remark, pulling his hands away and watching Sam's head level as he returned his gaze, one of his dimples appearing as he smirked.
"I'm more like McClane." Dean returned, swallowing back the rage, burying it back down inside him, saving it up to release the next time Darrell was in arm's reach.
"Nah, you're Riggs all the way."
"You realize that makes you Murtaugh?"
Sam shrugged, as best he could with only one good shoulder.
"I'm good with that."
Dean snorted, but didn't have the heart to continue with the joke, as he sat back and stared at his little brother. The kid was a wreck. He was beat to hell. His breath was coming and going in small whistles of air. His entire frame was shaking. He had his left arm clutched around his chest in an effort to keep his fucked-up shoulder stable.
"Here." Dean whispered, reaching across the floor and swiping up his discarded leather jacket.
Sam rolled his eyes, but obediently leaned forward – wincing as he performed the simple action – and allowed the older boy to wrap the coat around his back. He eagerly slid his right arm through the sleeve and waited patiently as Dean tucked his left hand into the right armhole, effectively supporting his injured shoulder. Once the process was complete, Sam sat back and released a whistled sigh.
Dean hadn't realize how much concern was lining his face, until the younger man spoke up.
"I'm alright, Dean."
The attempt at reassurance fell on deaf ears, because the green eyes could clearly spot the truth.
"Okay, so I'm in pain. My muscles ache, my knee throbs, and my stomach won't stop grumbling; but other than my busted shoulder and my ribs, there's nothing internal going on. My chest is killing me, but my lungs are okay, and there's no bleeding under my skin." Sam insisted in a winded explanation.
"We don't know that." Dean frowned, fear building in his chest. It was a familiar fear, one he had felt every other damn time his kid's life had been at risk. Which was way too many bloody times.
"I do. We've both been hurt enough to know when something is going wrong inside. This is not one of those times."
And wasn't that just a punch to the gut. His little brother should not know how it felt to bleed internally or have something wrong with your organs. But he did. They both did.
Dean nodded, accepting the words, even though it did very little to stomp down the fear growing inside of him.
"How are you?" Sam questioned, his raspy voice full of concern as his big hazel eyes glanced between Dean's face and his right hip.
"I'm fine." He dismissed. It was the truth, mostly. His side was throbbing and if he moved the wrong way, it felt like it was on fire, but it wasn't bleeding much anymore, the shirt tied around it was practically dry. His body was sore, bruises making themselves known, and he had a headache that wouldn't go away. But it was nothing he couldn't handle.
All things considered, he was fine.
"Let me see."
Dean relented, because some things never changed. His brother could be like a dog with a bone and if he didn't just give the kid what he wanted, he would never stop pestering him. He raised his shirt, and pulled back the make-shift bandage, allowing Sam a glimpse at the wound, his long fingers sweeping over the area.
"It's still seeping." He reported with a frown.
"Barely." Dean dismissed with a shrug, allowing his shirt to fall back into place.
"It'll be a miracle if that doesn't get infected." Sam added miserably.
Dean shrugged again, because he wasn't lying. The cellar was filthy, and filth and bullet wounds were a perfect recipe for infection; but he didn't have time to worry about that, as his brother breathed in a sharp inhale and his long body tensed.
"You okay?" He asked, as Sam's face twitched in growing discomfort.
"Yeah." The teen rasped, as he relaxed back against the wall again.
"You sure?" Dean double-checked, his eyes sweeping over the kid.
"Yeah. Just a twitch."
"Good." He said with a nod, taking a deep breath before continuing. "Now do you want to tell me exactly what the fuck you were thinking?"
Sam's eyes widened, at either the furious tone or the escalated volume of the inquiry.
"When I fell asleep you were right beside me, and then I wake up and you've fucking vanished." Dean snapped, the helplessness he had felt, manifesting itself in anger – an emotion he very much preferred.
"Did you think that I abandoned you?" Sam whispered, sounding equal parts hurt and guilty.
"I wished that you had. But I knew that you didn't. That you wouldn't." Dean responded honestly, knowing that Darrell Fenton's filthy lies were sill swirling around in his kid's brain.
Sam lost a little of his kicked-puppy look.
"What I didn't know was where the fuck you went, or if you took off willingly. For all I knew one of those scumbags nabbed you."
"Oh please, like they could get in here without waking you."
"You got out just fine."
Sam shrugged. "I've got more experience moving around without rousing my over-protective big brother. Besides, I'm not a threat, so you didn't need to wake-up swinging." Sam explained, quirking an amused grin.
"Not a threat to me, but you seem to be one to yourself. What the hell were you thinking going walking around upstairs? You got some sort of death wish I should know about?"
"I had a plan." Sam defended.
"Oh really? Did it involve not telling your brother what the fuck was going on, locking me in the damn cell, and then marching around upstairs, only to get caught and have our one damn advantage taken away. That key was our only hope of getting out of this shithole."
Sam sat patiently through the tirade, giving Dean a look of mild amusement until he finished.
"I didn't tell you because I knew you would try and stop me—
"Damn right, I would."
"And I locked the cage because I didn't want you trying to come after me."
Dean pointed down irritably at the shackle locked around his ankle.
"Exactly, if you tried to come after me you could have done permanent damage. Also, in case anyone wanted to get to you, they couldn't, because it was locked and I had the key."
"Yeah, you had it." The older man pointed out, frustrated that Sam's only method of escape had been taken away, because the moron had decided to go for a stroll.
"And I went upstairs to find the key for your chains. I looked around down here first to see if there was something that would be able to break through them, but I didn't have any luck. So I had to go upstairs to find the key."
"Which worked wonderfully." Dean commented sarcastically.
"It didn't go as planned, but it still worked."
Dean squinted down at the younger man seated on the floor, his legs stretched out in front of him. He watched as Sam leaned to one side and reached into his back pocket, pulling out a small container.
The hunter's mouth nearly dropped open as Sam tossed the object onto the floor in front of his feet.
Dean's lock pick set.
"How long were you planning on hiding that?" He questioned, a surprised smile pulling at his lips.
Sam grinned up at him, hazel eyes peaking out at him from underneath the fringe of brown bangs.
"I was waiting until you were finished with your lecture." He quipped.
Dean huffed, taking a seat beside his little brother and grabbing on to the small tin, flipping it open and pulling out the materials he needed.
"You grabbed this while you were upstairs?"
"Yeah, it was on the table, probably just got tossed there after they emptied our pockets. I wanted to grab one of our phones too, but I couldn't find them. I wasn't up there long enough to really look either, Darrell is a pretty light sleeper for such a big dude."
"He seemed pretty drunk too."
Sam nodded.
"Yeah, there were bottles all over the place, it smelt like a brewery up there. I really hoped they were all passed out, but I barely had time to so much as glance around before Darrell came out of nowhere."
Dean grunted as he twisted the tools into the lock around his ankle.
"You shouldn't have done that, Sam. It was way too big of a risk."
He didn't have to look up from his efforts to know that Sam was rolling his eyes – he could sense his little brother's attitude from miles away.
Long cold fingers swatted at his calloused ones.
"Give me those." Sam instructed, palm out.
"Nah, dude, I got it." Dean dismissed, not missing how the large hand trembled.
"Just give them." Sam demanded, snatching the tools from Dean's fingers and gently tugging the shackled ankle closer to where he was seated.
Dean huffed, but didn't fight the kid, stretching his leg out toward him, keeping it still and allowing Sam to do his work.
"You know I've always been better at this." He mumbled, as he expertly slid the picks into the small hole.
"I figured maybe you got rusty."
Sam looked up long enough to flick his hair from his eyes and send his big brother an unamused glare.
"A few months at school does not eradicate a life's worth of training." He mumbled.
Dean smirked, always loving it when Sam pulled out those ten-dollar words. The kid was going to make a damn good lawyer.
Just like that, the lock clicked and the shackle popped open.
"Well your lock pick skills are clearly still up to par." Dean praised, reaching to rid of the metal on his leg.
"Wait, wait, wait!" Sam ordered, smacking his brother's hands.
"Dude, enough with that." Dean whined, pulling his fingers back and away from the abuse. That was like the third time that kid had smacked at him.
"You're fine." Sam sighed dismissively. "Just let me take it off."
"Well, hurry it up already."
Sam made no response, as he cautiously, and very slowly, removed the shackle. Dean hissed as the metal was pulled away from the damaged skin beneath it. Sam tossed the blood-smeared chunk of hardware across the cell, a flash of anger coming through, before he placed his attention back on the newly-freed joint, his fingers trailing the marred skin.
"Shit, that's probably going to scar. I told you to stop pulling on it so hard."
Dean shrugged, attempting to pull his leg away, but stopping as Sam refused to relinquish his hold of his foot.
"Is it as painful as it looks?"
"I'm fine, Sam. We need to focus on getting the hell out of here, while we can." He reminded the younger man, pulling his leg away and climbing to his feet.
"We're going now?"
"Yes, now. I'm not giving them another chance to get their hands on you. It's not fucking happening."
The look of pure unadulterated hero-worship Dean received from his kid, was not one that he deserved in the least, and he found himself looking away, unable to accept the adoration he was so incredibly unworthy of.
"You stay here, while I get the gate unlocked."
"I'd be faster."
"Probably, but you just keep your ass on that floor until we are ready to get out of here. I don't want you moving until you have to."
"So bossy." Sam mumbled, but Dean knew it was just for show, as he watched him relax back against the wall and close his eyes.
It was only then that Dean allowed the fear he was feeling to show on his face, only for a moment before he schooled his features. He was worried about Sam, about how he was going to get the kid to safety without causing him additional injury or pain.
But he would do it. He would find a way. He would carry the sasquatch if he had to.
"You sure you don't want my help?" Sam inquired, cracking his eyes open and looking over at his brother.
"Nah, I'm all good, now that I'm not on a leash."
His little brother's expression clouded over, a rare flash of rage flitting across his battered face.
Dean shook his head, on occasion he forgot that Sam was capable of a frightening anger. Frustration was not uncommon for him, or aggravation, especially when it came to his relationship with their father. But ire was rare for the younger boy. Perhaps, Sam had a little bit of Dean in him after all. He quirked a smile at the thought and returned his attention to the task at hand, having to stick his hands awkwardly through the bars in an effort to pick the lock.
"Get it yet?"
"No, Sam. I'm not a freakin contortionist." He grumbled.
Sam chuckled softly, and though the sound was wispier than Dean would have liked it, it still warmed his heart. He absently wondered if there would ever come a day where the sound of his kid brother's laughter wouldn't make him feel all gooey inside. It was doubtful.
His face felt as though it was imprinted by the bars of the cage, by the time the lock clicked and the gate finally opened.
"Alright, little brother. Let's get the hell out of here." He urged, as he rushed back over to the long body seated on the ground, pocketing the lock-pick set as he went.
Sam had his good arm outstretched, his hand latching onto his big brother's forearm as Dean gripped his and pulled him up to his feet. To his credit, Sam didn't make a sound, but the agony he was experiencing was clearly depicted all over his expression.
"I got you, Sammy. Slow and steady." Dean encouraged, pulling the long right arm over his shoulders as they made their way to the far side of the cellar. His eyes scanned the wall of hunting weapons, searching for something small he could pocket. Most of the weapons decorating the walls were far too large for him to handle, he needed his hands free in case he had to carry the injured man shuffling by his side. He snagged a dagger and slid it through his beltloop.
"There's a shotgun over there." Sam nodded to the left of the window. "I saw it when I was fighting with Darrell, but I couldn't get to it. Not sure how many rounds it'll have in it – if any, but you should grab it."
Dean flicked his gaze toward the indicated direction, spotting the firearm mounted on the wall.
"Go get it, Dean. I'll be fine."
He didn't know if Sam meant he would be fine standing by the window, or if he was reading his mind again and assuring him that he would be fine to walk the distance, leaving the elder Winchester's hands free to wield the weaponry. Either way, he made sure Sam was steady on his feet, before moving to grab the shotgun. He looked over the twelve-gauge, noting the six shells it held, as he rushed back to the young man leaning heavily against the wall.
"They might hear the window break." Sam warned softly, as he watched Dean hold up the butt of the gun.
"Small window at the back of the house, I'll try and keep it quiet, but it shouldn't make too much noise." He had broken enough windows to know how much force to apply to keep the smash to a minimum. Just like he had intended, the break was relatively silent, as he hit the corner of the window and then dragged the shotgun across the edges to quietly rid of all the remaining shards.
"Alright, dude. I'm going to help you up—
"No, I'll help you—
"Sam, it's going to be a lot easier for him to push you up, than try and pull your gigantic body through the space. I need you to just follow my lead on this, alright? We don't have time to debate everything."
The taller man bit his lip, but resigned himself to the request as he reached up to grab the windowsill with his good arm, keeping the left one tucked inside the jacket. Dean bent down in front of Sam, locking his hands together and waiting for the large foot to settle on top of them.
"Fuck, dude. Your feet are freezing." Dean muttered, as he began to force Sam upwards.
Sam groaned as he dragged himself through the small hole, his body tense – in what Dean knew had to be excruciating pain – as he army crawled forward, on his busted ribs, until his feet were clear of the window. Once the long frame had disappeared, Dean tossed the firearm through the gap.
He reached up, wishing for his brother's vertical advantage as he gripped the windowsill, struggling to pull himself up by his finger tips.
"Hand." Sam demanded breathlessly, as he appeared in the gap with his palm reaching down.
Dean hesitated, seeing the agony on the sweaty face looking down at him.
"Now." Sam ground out.
The older hunter didn't want to cause his brother anymore pain, but time was of the essence, so he grabbed onto the waiting hand. He tried to help by climbing as Sam's unyielding grip pulled him up and out through the window.
Dean wasted no time getting to his feet, and pulling the thinner frame up with him. He scanned their surroundings, taking in the dirt path and the trees, which were all around them. The truck that had brought them there was gone and the Impala was nowhere in sight - forcing them to travel on foot. Dean had no idea where they were or what was in the surrounding areas, or where the next clearing was, but he knew that they didn't have time to stand there and sort out the best direction to take. There was a chance the Fentons had heard something, a chance that they would come running out of the house shooting, or that whoever had gone out in the truck would return at any moment; which also meant that following the road wasn't an option either.
Dean grabbed the shotgun up with one hand, and wrapped his arm around his brother's waist with another, feeling a bony right arm settler over his shoulders as they started to move. His instincts were telling him to run, to book it as far and as fast as possible, but he knew that wasn't an option, Sam's body couldn't handle it. The kid was plagued with injuries, and their slow jog was enough to have him gasping and whimpering in pain. They maintained a jog for what most have been at least a couple hours, until they were far deeper into the woods, until Dean was certain there were no Fenton men closing in on them, until he could feel fresh blood from his bullet wound soaking the waistband of his jeans, and until Sam pleaded for an end.
"Stop. Dean. Please. I can't."
Dean immediately slowed his pace at the request. It was rare – if ever—that Sam declared that he couldn't do something, and he knew that him saying such a thing was a red flag.
"What's up? What's wrong?" He asked, unable to keep the urgency from his tone as they came to a stop.
Sam lulled forward, his right arm gripping tight around Dean's shoulder as he nearly collapsed into the shorter frame. He was fighting to stay on his feet, as his head dropped against his brother's chest.
"Can't- can't breathe. Please. Need to rest. Just a minute."
The kid's inhalations had gone from bad to worse, as he wheezed in a painful sounding breath - his exhale just as ragged, as it whistled through the stillness of the night.
"Sure thing, buddy. Come here."
Dean maintained a firm hold on the skinny body that was trembling violently, as he held it up against his own and lead them to a small hollow that appeared to be created by the roots of several trees. The space was just tall enough to allow Sam to sit under the shelter of the roots, while resting his back up against the side of the earthy cavern. It was cold and dirty, but would at least provide some shelter. Dean squatted down in front of his little brother, placing his hand on the heaving chest and swiping the long hair off the damp forehead so he could find those big eyes and acquire his brother's focus. Sam's fingers found the amulet dangling from Dean's neck, at the same moment that the hazel gaze met the green one.
"Slow breaths, Sammy. Slow and as deep as you can." He instructed, knowing that the kid's oxygen-deprived body was telling him an entirely different story.
True to from, Sam ignored his body's demands, but he followed his big brother's instruction. Dean could see the hazel gaze reflecting the moonlight as it stared steadily over at him.
"That's my boy." He praised after a few moments, relieved as hell when the younger man's wheezing breaths leveled out and began to sound much less desperate.
"We can keep going." Sam rasped, his hand still clenching the charm resting on Dean's chest.
"It's okay. Let's just take a break."
"I can do it." He stated.
Gawd, Dean fucking loved his strong little brother.
"I know, kiddo. But you don't have to. Not right now. It's still late, and there hasn't been any sign of them yet, so they probably won't even notice we are gone until morning. We're okay to rest here for a few minutes." He assured.
"Y'sure?" Sam slurred, his eyes focussed, even though Dean knew the boy's body was crashing under the pain of injury and the exertion of the escape.
But even though Sam's body was demanding rest, the older boy knew that if he had said he needed his kid to get up and go with him, Sam would have done it. He would have forced his limbs to cooperate, and swallowed down the agony, if Dean had asked him to do so. Because that was what his little brother did. Whatever Dean demanded of him, he gave. Whenever Dean needed him, he pulled through, no matter what the cost was to himself. Sam had been that way from the beginning, always giving his big brother everything and anything that he had.
Darrell and those other Fenton assholes had it all wrong.
Hell, even John had it wrong.
Because Sam had never been selfish, not for one goddamn day in his life. He was always willing to give more, even when he had nothing left. He sacrificed everything, even when it wasn't expected of requested of him. He risked everything, his life, to protect his protector. Sam was the only person on the planet who had never let Dean down. The only one he could ever truly depend on. The only one who was always there for him.
How dare anyone every label Sam as selfish, or a traitor, or anything but a fucking hero.
Because that was what he was.
A hero.
"Yeah, Sammy. I'm sure." Dean whispered, allowing his kid some time to breathe, and silently promising to keep him safe.
Because Sammy was his hero, and for some amazing reason, Dean was his. And he wanted to be more for him. He would do whatever it took to be the one person Sam could depend on.
To earn that look of adoration that the younger boy was always giving him.
To be deserving of the trust his little brother placed in him.
To be worthy of his kid's unconditional love.
Because it had sustained Dean for his entire life.