A/N: Wow, thanks for the fantastic response, you guys! I seriously could not write this story if it wasn't for y'all (sniffles). And extra special thanks to all those who voted, as well! Now, for the results of the voting!

John: 15 votes

Missouri: 9 votes

Pastor Jim: 6 votes

Well, I figured since John and Missouri were both so popular I'd just have them both in. And, as I have a soft spot for Pastor Jim (he just seemed like such a NICE guy in the series!) I'll also pop him in too, indirectly. You'll just have to read and see!

10.

It wasn't right, really. It didn't make any sense. It was the middle of Winter, at that time of year where Mother Nature dithered in indecision between snow and rain, so moisture steamed up the windows and icicles formed daggers of trapped water from drainpipes. Four-year old Sam Winchester usually wouldn't mind the cold, because it meant snowmen and Christmas and maybe even a tree with sparkling baubles on it. Not today.

Dean was sick.

Not icky throwing up kind of sick, though. Really sick. He alternately burnt and froze, but shivered regardless. Shivered so hard Sam could swear he could hear the teeth rattling around inside his big brother's skull. When he burnt, his skin was so hot that Sam was sure he must be on fire, although he couldn't see any flames. Sam was frightened. He didn't like fire. A fire took Mom, and he didn't want one to take Dean, too. He wished Daddy was here. He didn't understand. He didn't know what to do.

On the bed, Dean moaned and shifted, and Sam turned from the window to look fearfully across the room. Earlier that day, Dean had pressed a hand against the steamy moisture which fogged up the pane of glass and made a handprint there. Grinning, he had said he had made his mark. Sam liked to put his own hand inside the now fading print. His fingertips barely touched the edges of his brother's palm. He hated being little.

"Da..d…?"

Dean called out hoarsely in that horrible, scratchy voice that made Sam shudder. But he didn't blame Dean, not really. He knew he didn't mean it, couldn't help it. People did weird things when they were sick.

Sam shrugged his bony shoulders further into the warm sweater which was (like so many other things he owned) once Dean's, and therefore far too big for him. He liked them that way, though. They were big and warm and smelt like Dean.

He slid carefully from the window ledge and hurried across the room to stand beside the bed. The top of the mattress reached up to his waist, but at least he could reach across the covers to touch his brother. He bit his lip, gazing in fearful awe at the sheen of sweat which covered Dean's bare skin, and the usually pale freckled cheeks flushed an unhealthy red. Sam hesitated, then reached over, placing a small, cool hand against Dean's hair, wrinkling his nose when he found it to be sticky beneath his palm.

Dean whimpered, and turned his face towards his little brother, who started. Sam licked his dry lips and swallowed.

"Dean?"

Dean frowned, eyes roving beneath shadowed eyelids, and shifted his arm towards the source of the warmth seeping into the covers. His fingers found the coarse fabric of his little brother's arm, and he wrapped a shaking hand around it, as though anchoring himself to reality. Sam could feel the terrible burn of his brother's skin even through his sweater, and placed the hand that was not on his brother's hair over Dean's.

"Da..d…Dad…"

Sam's face fell, and he shook his head vigorously from side to side, even though he knew Dean could not see him, feeling a little frantic. And guilty. Dean wanted Dad, of course he did. He wouldn't want Sammy, not right now. But that was okay. Sam wanted Dad, too.

"I sorry, Dean…Daddy's not here."

Sam pulled his brother's limp hand away from his arm, managing to smile a little when the long fingers wrapped themselves around his own palm. Dean's hand was so large in comparison to his that they could actually encircle Sam's entire hand and wrist. Sam folded his other hand over the back of Dean's so that his brother's hand was clasped between his, mimicking what Dean had done for him all the times when he had been sick or hurt. Thinking back, that had been quite a few times. But never to Dean. Nothing ever hurt Dean, at least, not like this. Not without Dad around.

Dean ceased to shift uneasily, and seemed to sink back into the mattress, relaxing a little. Still, he did not wake, and Sam could have sworn the skin touching his own was pulsing with heat which only grew more intense. Sam jumped up so his stomach acted as a balance on the edge of the bed, then used his feet to wriggle up onto it. Climbing onto his knees, he edged up to the pillow and sat close to Dean's head, staring unblinkingly into his brother's flushed features.

"Dean, you're scaring me. Please wake up."

Dean would never, ever scare him on purpose, if he could help it. He had told Sam so. Apart from that time with fake spider in the bathtub, but that had been a joke. Sam hadn't thought it was very funny at the time, and Dean had gotten a long lecture from Dad for doing it…but afterwards his brother had seemed genuinely sorry, given him an apologetic hug and had even read Sam a bedtime story. Dean didn't seem to want to do those things very much anymore.

Sam sighed, and wriggled down so that he was lying right up close to Dean's side on top of the covers. Staring up at Dean's far from peaceful expression, he closed his eyes and leant his forehead against his brother's burning neck.

"You're all hot and shaky. I don't like it, Dean. It's all wrong and I don't like it."

He murmured, and Dean shivered at the cold breath against his skin. Sam leant up on his elbows, willing Dean to wake up, sit up, tell him it was okay. He was scared. Dean always made it better when he was scared. He knew he owed it to Dean to look after him, protect him, but he felt so little and inadequate. He couldn't possibly do as good a job as Dean always did. And he was afraid he would let Dean down.

"Tell me what to do. I don't know what to do. Dean?"

Sam felt his throat close up and begin to burn. It hurt to swallow. His chest was tight and he could feel hot moisture building behind his eyes. Feeling inexplicably angry, Sam slammed his fists down on the covers, leant down and shouted as loud as he could in his brother's ear:

"DEAN!"

Dean jerked so hard his fist came flying out and smacked Sam across the temple, sending his little brother flying down into the mattress, thankfully not toppling off the bed. Dean groaned, kicked his legs and writhed horribly, twisting the covers around him, then doubled over his stomach. Sam could only watch in shock and horror as Dean seemed to fold his body into the smallest ball possible, his thin frame wracked by shudders.

Sam felt sick and dizzy with guilt, an acidic, condemning burn biting into his chest. Feeling something cold sliding down his cheeks, he made a strangled sound of frustration and anger and terror and threw himself into Dean's back, pressing his skull into the small hollow between his brother's shoulder blades, spouting the mantra 'I sorry' over and over until he feared it would be branded into his tongue.

"I sorry. I made it worse. I sorry. I don't…I don't know…"

He began to tremble with Dean, dry sobs filling the humid air as he rocked back and forth, thin arms snaking around Dean's chest and holding on as tightly as he dared.

"Dean, please wake up. Please, please, please. I'll be good, I promise. I won't take your toys or call you mean names or tell Daddy on you. Just wake up. Please?"

Damp began to soak through Dean's shirt, and Sam could taste salt on his tongue. He winced. Copper too. He must have bitten his tongue. He tentatively ran his tongue around his teeth, wincing at the stab of pain which filled his mouth. He swallowed, trying desperately not to gag. His heart was beating so loudly and so fast that he could swear Dean must be able to hear it.

Dean's own heart beat sounded horribly slow, pulsing through his skin like a heat wave. A regular beat to the fluttering of Sam's racing heart.

"Please don't die big brother…"

He murmured, so quietly it was almost lost in the noisy rush of blood in the two bodies lying so closely together. No, no, no. It was all wrong. Horribly, terribly, wrongly wrong. Dean wasn't supposed to be like this. Sam had to make it better. But how? How, how, how? He didn't know what to do. He never knew what to do.

What would Dean do?

If I'm not back by Sunday…?

Sam frowned as his father's voice filled his head, inquiring of him, even though Sam knew he was not addressing his younger son. What, he thought? Tell me what to do.

Call Pastor Jim's.

Dean replied, the answer echoing around Sam's head. It seemed, even like this, Dean was still here. Sam nodded to himself, and rested his cheek briefly against his brother's warm shoulder, the heat now feeling somehow more comforting and encouraging than hostile. His lips twitched, and he clenched a shaking fist, rubbing it against his wet eyes and cheeks, sniffling.

"Thank you Dean."

Dean did not reply, and, although it may have been Sam's imagination, he could have sworn he saw his brother's lips twitch upwards in the shadow of a smile. Sam beamed, leant down, and pressed a brief kiss to his big brother's flushed cheek, before sitting up and frowning in thought.

After a moment, he slid carefully from the stiflingly warm sheets until his bare feet touched the coarse surface of the carpet, then lowered himself to the floor. He stood unsteadily, one hand still fisted tightly in the cotton of Dean's shirt, and scanned the room for the telephone. Spotting it by the door, attached high on the wall, Sam swallowed. It was too high. Even if he jumped, he would never be able to reach it.

Dean shuddered violently and moaned again, and Sam released his brother's shirt as though he had been stung. Biting down hard on his lower lip, he clasped his hands tightly together while he thought as hard as he could. He needed a step. Or something he could stand on to reach the phone. He glanced around the room, desperately searching for something light yet strong enough to serve as a phone-stand. After a few minutes of frantic searching, his gaze fell upon the large metal trash can which stood in the corner of the room.

He hurried over to it, and leaned down to see it was empty. Good. Dad would get mad if he had had to tip rubbish all over the floor. Clasping the cold metallic rim of the trash can, he dragged it over to the door and hastily upturned it, wincing at the resounding clang that made Dean groan and shift a little. Suppressing his guilt for the sake of urgency, he clambered gingerly up onto it, wobbling a little, and stood for a moment to secure his balance. Then he reached up, hesitated, and wrapped a shaking hand around the smooth plastic of the receiver. Taking a deep breath, he lifted it off the hook, and smiled at his victory.

Then, his face fell.

Feeling cold despair welling in his chest, he slid down the wall and sat despondently on the upturned trash can, hot tears beginning to burn the backs of his eyes. He clenched his fists and shook with self-loathing and anger and frustration. Useless. Pathetic. He didn't know Pastor Jim's number. He had only recently learnt all the numbers from one to ten, and even if he could remember the number, he had never used a telephone before. He knew that people spoke in and out of it, of course, and that you typed the number in on the little keyboard-thing, but he had never actually done it.

"Stop it Sammy. This isn't helping Dean."

He muttered brokenly to himself, wiping his face on the back of his sleeve. He had to think. He had to be big and strong like Dean always was for him. What would Dean do if he needed to look up somebody's telephone number? Sam thought hard, remembering all the times when Dean had rung somebody, desperately wishing he had paid more attention.

The address book is on the nightstand, so if you need to call the doctor or anyone else the numbers are all in there.

His brother's voice came to him again, and he whipped about, running over to the nightstand with a determined expression contorting his face into that of a child far beyond his four years. Placing a small hand on the smooth, cool leather of the address book, he abruptly flipped it open and squinted, trying to make sense of the dancing chaos of numbers and letters all jumbled together in disarray.

Quashing the rising panic in his chest with incredible self restraint, he pursed his lips and leant so close to the page his nose touched the paper. After a moment, he identified the large letter 'A' in the upper right hand corner. He was at the beginning of the book, at 'A'. He frowned, thinking. Where would Pastor Jim be? P? J? No, Dean had said it was done by surname, so…um…

Murphy! 'M', then. Sam bit his lip. Where was M in the alphabet, again?

"A b c d e f g, h i j k l…M!"

He muttered to himself, smiling in triumph as he began to flip through the pages, all the while continuing to murmur the alphabet under his breath. Finally, he reached the page marked with a large letter 'M', and placed a finger on the first address, praying that Pastor Jim was somewhere near the beginning. The first name seemed to slide in and out of focus, the letters refusing to slide together, to make sense. Sam's breath hitched. He wasn't very good at reading. Keep calm, he urged himself.

When in doubt, spell it out!

Dean's voice in his head echoed from many a night of reading together, and then laughed. Sam nodded obediently, hesitating before running the tip of his finger slowly across the first name.

"P…P-A…ssss…T…O…rrrr…gee…ma…"

His eyes widened, and he gave a small whoop of joy.

"Pasty Jim!"

Carefully keeping his place in the small book, he hurried back over to the makeshift phone stand and scrambled up onto it, heart beating hard and fast in his chest. Nearly there. He had nearly done it. All he had to do was type in the number, and then get help.

He read the number to himself, over and over again, then placed it on the floor beside the trash can. Reaching up, he grabbed the receiver off the hook and began to painstakingly type in the number, snapping his head back and forth between the book on the floor and the buttons on the phone.

"Um…2…6…0…7…uh…8…3…4…2…6…and…1."

He held his breath and shifted nervously from foot to foot, careful not to fall from the top of the trash can, while tinny rings sounded in his ear. He jumped and winced with each new toll, finding it terribly odd to hear them straight in his ear. He decided he didn't like the phone, not one bit. But he had to do this. He had to get help for Dean.

After what felt like decades, the rings stopped, and a clear and familiar voice sounded in Sam's ear.

"Hello, this is Anchorhead Vicarage, Pastor Jim Murphy speaking. Can I help you?"

Sam swallowed thickly, suddenly speechless.

"Um…"

He croaked out, licking his dry lips, glancing nervously over to Dean, who still lay trembling on the bed. He stiffened his resolve and tried again.

"Pasty…Jim?"

There was a brief, surprised pause, before Pastor Jim's voice came through the receiver again, clearly taken aback but wonderfully soothing to Sam's ears.

"Sam? Sam Winchester, my child, is that you? What's wrong?"

Suddenly, something in Sam broke. All the tension, the terror, the confusion, the pain and the fear of the past few hours seemed to build higher and higher until it overwhelmed him, and he whimpered, drawing his legs up and huddling around himself, shaking uncontrollably.

"Pasty Jim," he choked out, through a screen of tears "Dean's on fire."

-----------------------------

"God, Sammy, I swear…"

Dean muttered exasperatedly to himself, as he continued the tedious task of restoring the motel to relative order. It was proving more difficult than expected. He was used to menial tasks such as doing the dishes, changing the bed-sheets and so on; he had done that for most of his life. Although he had grappled with blood-stained carpets many times, it did nothing to prepare him for trying to get what felt like a million shards of glass out of a resilient carpet. The floor was putting up one hell of a fight.

Sam, however, was not-so-blissfully ignorant of his brother's aggravation, and continued to sleep disturbingly quietly. He lay so still, if Dean couldn't hear the raspy breathing issuing from his brother's chest he would have thought Sam had stopped breathing. He shuddered at that thought, and ran a hand through his hair and over his face. His arms ached, and his palms were sore from sweeping and gathering and scrubbing. And all he wanted was to sink down into his own bed, no matter how uncomfortable the mattress was, and sleep for a month.

But he couldn't.

Sammy came first. Before sleep, before himself, hell, before everything. And something was not right with his little brother, not right at all. Therefore, Dean ignored the way his body ached for rest, placed the dustpan and brush to one side and sat for a moment on the floor in the middle of the room, thinking. Glancing over at the sleeping form on the bed, he sighed quietly.

"Why is it always you, Sam?" He murmured, a little more emphatically than he would care to admit "Couldn't someone else take a turn at being the ghoulies punching bag for a change?"

Sam's contribution to the conversation was, as ever, about as inspirational as a paralyzed mute goldfish. Chuckling at his creative use of metaphors, Dean absentmindedly reached up to his neck and fiddled with the coarse strap of his necklace. It was something he always did, when thinking. Sam tended to bite his fingers instead, which was entirely less healthy and looked far sillier. Still, it wasn't a habit that was easy to break.

Dean huffed a breath, and clambered businesslike to his feet. Time to get some work done.

"Alright. Keep it cool, Winchester. Dad's journal. Look in Dad's journal. Gotta work out what this thing is whether Sammy's gonna help you or not."

Yes, he also talked to himself. What? Everybody did. It was good motivation. Plus, he wasn't so completely anti-social that he would ignore himself too. At least then he was guaranteed some witty conversation. Heh.

Dean shook his head to dispel the momentary internal monologue, and retrieved the leather bound journal from its resting place on his bed. Sitting back against the headboard, he paused for a moment to stare at the cover, with all its scratches and wears and tears. It was exactly like Dad. Like a piece of their Father's mind, thoughts and feelings, was always with them. He frowned. Now he was getting mushy. Flipping the journal open, he began to skim the pages, muttering to himself as he did so. Or rather, to Sam.

"Dreams and nightmares? Must be some kind of psychic-mind screwing thing. And whatever it was, the after effects are still messing with your head, kiddo…man; I'm no good at this researching gig…"

After about half an hour of talking to nobody in particular about nothing in particular, and having used up just about every curse known to man and spirit alike (including, oddly, 'holy crumpets!' and 'well salt me up and burn me down, this sucks outta hell!') Dean was running out of ideas. There was absolutely nothing useful mentioned in the journal. At all. Zit, zilch, niddo, nadda.

Feeling the beginnings of despair clawing it's way through his mind, Dean growled in frustration and ran a hand wearily over his face. It was late. And he was so tired. He could swear that he was sinking further and further into the mattress beneath him, could feel his muscles begging, his bones aching for sleep. This was no good. He couldn't help Sam, not like this. But God, that made him feel like such a failure.

Peeking out between his fingers, he observed his brother's still horribly blank features and frowned.

"What'd you see, Sammy? What did that thing do to you?"

No answer. Grunting, Dean rolled himself off the edge of the mattress and crouched unsteadily on the floor between the two twin beds, his vision focusing and un-focusing, making him dizzy. He rubbed at his temple and winced, and leant back against the hard wood of his brother's bed, leaning his head close to Sam's and allowing his eyes to rove over his brother's face. The slightest caress of gentle breathing reassured him of the reality of the situation. Sam was alive, still. But he wasn't Sammy. Not like this, unable to talk or move or smile. Dean really missed Sam's smile.

A troubled expression aging his features, Dean reached over Sam's shoulder to grasp the edge of the duvet, which had slipped down to his brother's waist. Goosebumps had risen up Sam's arms, yet he didn't shiver. Dean shook his head and tugged the sheets up to his brother's neck, then began to rub Sam's arm absently, trying to restore some warmth in his brother's motionless body.

"You know you have to spell things out for me, man, I've never been the brightest crayon in the pack. So just…have a think about it for me, okay?"

Dean knew Sam would if he could. Right now he'd give anything for one of Sam's goofy 'aw shucks, so you really do care! Hee hee this'll come back to bite you in the ass one day' grins and they could just go and get some coffee and forget the whole thing. But he knew that wasn't happening any time soon. He had left Sam alone. This was his fault, it was he who had been in the wrong, yet Sam was paying the price. And the most annoying thing was, the smug bastard probably wouldn't have it any other way.

"Sammy, I don't know what to do. And just who am I gonna ask, way out here?"

He didn't know why he kept on talking. Usually he hated it. Maybe it was habit. After the night of the fire, he hadn't spoken to anyone for months, not even Dad. Nobody, that was, except for Sam. It was weird. There was something soothing about the way he would just talk for hours on end, a little four year old squashed in the corner of a cot, Sam's large, deep brown eyes just staring up at him. Sometimes his baby brother would have made baby noises, and he had imagined that Sammy was talking back to him. It seemed like he did. Whenever Dean was sad, Sam seemed to know, and would make sympathetic cooing noises. Whenever he said something funny, his baby brother would giggle. Sam could always read him like a book.

Except, back then, even when Sammy had been asleep at least he would still be Sammy. He'd toss and turn, smile or frown in his sleep, and once he got strong enough to roll over and crawl he would automatically wriggle his way across the mattress till he was as close to Dean as he could be. Dad had always said it was because Sammy felt safer when he was close to Dean. Thinking back, Dean suspected that although that was true, Sam had also understood that Dean felt safer when he was near. Sam understood things like that. Even when Dean didn't voice his thoughts, his feelings, and he rarely did…Sam knew. He always knew.

Now, though…it was like Sam wasn't even here. Like he'd skipped off to Sammy-land where there were lollypops and candy canes and a little house with a white picket fence, and left Dean with an empty shell. Maybe that was what Sam wanted. Maybe it wasn't that he couldn't wake up, but that he wouldn't.

Dean swallowed, cleared his throat, and patted Sam briefly on the shoulder.

"Hey, uh…just in case you can hear me, buddy, don't worry, okay? I'll get you back to normal somehow. Super-Dean's on the case."

Straightening up, Dean stretched, and winced as his spin creaked in protest. Feeling a dizzy spell coming on, he sat down heavily on his own bed and fumbled for his cell phone in his pocket. He flipped it open with one hand, half covering his mouth with the other as he yawned widely, and lay back on top of the covers. Scrolling down the contacts list, he kept up his tradition of letting Sam know what was going on. Just in case.

"Well, anyway, I'm gonna leave Dad a message, just in case he tries to send us off on another job. Cause no offense, man, but you look like crap. I don't think you could take a snail on laxatives, let alone a ghostly S.O.B."

Selecting the blank picture and number entitled 'Dad', Dean felt suddenly nervous. It was stupid, really. It wasn't like Dad was going to pick up. Still…there was just the tiniest part of him that still dared to hope, that after the third ring he'd hear that gruff hello.

This is John Winchester. I can't be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son Dean. 866-907-3235. He can help.

"Uh…hey Dad, it's Dean…"

Dean slid down the headboard till his pounding head rested against the pillow, winced, and watched his brother's sleeping face as he spoke as casually as he could.

"Well, um, just to let you know, Sammy's gotten himself a bit battered while on the hunt. Not that you care, but we don't know what it is, and uh…well, whatever it was it attacked Sam and I still don't know what the hell it did to him. His minds all over the place…he doesn't seem to know if he's here or there, y'know? He keeps talking like a little kid, its kinda creepy…"

Remembering their Dad liked it short, sweet and monotone, Dean cleared his throat and got back on topic.

"Anyway…don't worry, cause I'll get Sammy fixed up and on the roam in no time, but if you could just not send us on any hunts, cause I don't think we can handle it right now. Or…well…it'd be good if you could get here, but uh…"

A stab of…something filled his chest. Just weeks ago, Sam had been in his position. When he had been laying in hospital. Dying. Going to die. Almost definitely. Where had Dad been then?

"You know what? Forget it. Never mind. I've got it. Bye, Dad."

He said, without a trace of emotion. Snapping the cell shut, he tossed it carelessly in the general direction of the nightstand and groaned; rubbing a hand across his face, he felt exhaustion wrap itself around him like a shroud. Rolling over onto his front, without bothering to remove his shoes or climb under the covers he let his eyes drift shut. Maybe just a quick nap.

"Nigh', Sammy."

He managed through a wide yawn, before he slipped into the deep, depthless oblivion that was sleep. Sam wasn't the only one who would have bad dreams that night.

-----------------------------

A/N: Ooh, Daddy issues! This'll be good. (evil grin) I love John Winchester, and I think he got a bit of a raw deal in the series, so I figured I'd try and redeem him during this story. But I need my Dean angst first!

Little Sammy saying that Dean was 'on fire' was inspired when my little cousin (who is four, like Sam) told me that her older brother was on fire. This was when I went to baby-sit. Of course, I leap upstairs only to find no flames or charred remains, but a flushed little five year old boy with a fever. Children have the funniest way of expressing things!

Next chapter: A nice little update on the Papa Winchester situation, Sammy continues flashbacking, and Dean decides to call in the cavalry.

Please please pretty please review! You guys are so encouraging, and I'll update quicker! (Shameless bribery) Or…or I'll set Sammy's super special awesome puppy dog eyes of doomatage on you!

Thanks for reading :)