A/N: How many of you would like to see at least a couple more chapters in which Sam and John and the rest of our merry crew rally around our hurt boy? Oh-kay, you convinced me. You two folks can put your hands down now. Just kidding! Written quickly and unbeta'd, I'm departing from my original plan with this fic. Chapter title is from Not While I'm Around by Stephen Sondheim (Sweeney Todd).

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, darn it. The boys belong to Eric Kripke. This is solely for entertainment purposes, not profit. I may be twisted but I'm not stupid.

Chapter 12 – nothing's gonna harm you, darlin'

The corners of Dean's mouth twitched up in a weak grin. "Hey, Samantha," Dean whispered hoarsely.

"Hey, jerk." Sam's grin was wide and warm; it even reached his eyes. All warmth in his face and body language went completely cold as he turned his head slightly and dropped his gaze on John Winchester like a gunsight. "Dad." Sam's eyes narrowed to slits.

"Sammy," John's tone was flat, cool. So far Sam hadn't lifted the shotgun, or pointed it directly at him. Good. One of the first things John taught his boys was this: if you point a gun at someone, be sure you're willing to pull the trigger.

Thing was, John wasn't so sure that Sam wasn't willing to do just that. At this very moment his youngest son was unreadable. And the only reason Sam wasn't pointing the damn shotgun at John right now was leaning heavily against John.

Dean.

Weakened, pale Dean.

Either you come back with Dean alive and well, Dad, or you don't bother to come back at all.

Dean was alive, but he wasn't exactly the picture of health. His head bobbled like it weighed too much for him. Those dark sunglasses he wore couldn't hide the way his brow furrowed up. He tried to rest his chin on top of John's shoulder as he looked away, away from Sam, at a point somewhere over to the left. Dean hated this. Hated hospitals, hated being fussed over, hated the way he looked and felt now. Sam could tell.

Sam's hands loosened slightly around the stock of the sawed off, and John didn't miss that, either.

"D-Dad?" Dean breathed raggedly, in and out, in and out, like he'd forgotten how, and was trying to remember the trick to it. He blinked a little too rapidly, then: "Gonna…gonna hurl…"

He folded down to the ground slowly, on his knees. John steadied him, went with him, as Dean clawed frantically, clumsily at his sunglasses. Dean dry retched, and as he did the only thing that he thought about was how fucking pathetic this whole thing was, and how damned stupid he must look. This was the way the whole damn day had gone. Got wheeled out of the damn hospital in a damn wheel chair, for God's sake. Now he was on his knees in the dirt in Pastor Jim's front yard.

He'd never felt more worthless or helpless.

Dean wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He hated this almost as much as he hated himself right about now.

"Sam," John looked up sternly. "We can discuss this later, after I get Dean inside."

Sam didn't move at first. He stared at Dean.

Dean wanted to crawl away and hide. Sam knew that, too.

"Samuel?" Pastor Jim said quietly, from behind. "I appreciated your help moving the beds around. Could you get the clean sheets for me out of the closet?" There was a moment in which everyone seemed to freeze in place. "Samuel?"

Sam stood up. Slowly. He glared at John, and John glared right back. Sam turned and went back inside the house as Pastor Jim came down the front steps.

"Good to have you home, son," Jim Murphy said softly as he kneeled beside the young man and his father. Dean reached out blindly for Jim's left arm. The pastor allowed Dean to grip his forearm and steady himself. "You can have my room on the first floor. Bathroom's right around the corner, and so is the kitchen. That way you won't have to climb stairs until you feel better."

Those high cheekbones of Dean's were even higher, more pronounced. He was thin, the thinnest Pastor Jim had ever seen. He knew that Dean hated hospitals, hated hospital food with a passion. He wasn't a good patient, tolerated doctors and nursing staff for only so long, until he could gather up enough strength and check himself out.

Or sneak out on his own. That had happened a couple times that Pastor Jim knew of.

"Didn't want you…to go to this much trouble...for me…" Dean gasped. His knees nearly buckled on him as he tried to rise up. Pastor Jim and John waited until he was steady on his feet.

"Nonsense, Dean. It's no trouble at all."

Dad and Pastor Jim were nice enough about it, but they had to literally carry him up the front stairs. Friggin' pathetic.

The bedroom downstairs was big enough for the two twin beds from upstairs. Sam quietly made up the beds. Dean's bed first, the one in the middle of the room.

Dean refused to go near it. "I just…I just wanna sit down, that's all. Don't wanna lie down. 'm not sleepy." The damn it at the end of the sentence was a given. Dean lowered himself rather shakily into the overstuffed easy chair in the hallway. John smiled. Just a little.

He went into the kitchen and came back a moment later with a small glass of Seven-Up with the bubbles stirred out of it. Dean stared warily at the glass in John's hand. "It'll settle your stomach, kiddo."

Dean made a face. "Oh."

Sam glanced into the hallway then. Tension was in the air, slight now, but building. Don't make me have to order you to drink this, Ace, please, John prayed silently. That would set Sam off for sure.

John breathed a sigh of relief as Dean took the glass. Dean's fingers shook slightly. John pretended not to notice.

"John," Pastor Jim said serenely. "Can I have a word with you?"

"Sure. You gonna be okay, bud?"

Dean nodded silently.

"Okay. I'll be outside if you need me."

Best to get this over with now, Jim thought, before Sam and John were at each other's throats. They restrained themselves now, only because Dean wasn't feeling well. The two, the youngest and the father, were more like than they would ever admit. Dean could be a little prickly at times, but he imitated John's tough guy persona. Dean adored them both. If it had been anyone else, Jim would've thought that Dean was being manipulative, deliberately playing up his weakness to stop John and Sam from squaring off against each other. That wasn't it. Not at all.

John and Jim glanced back into the hallway at Dean before they stepped out on the porch. Dean just sat there, with the glass in his hand, staring into space, while Sam made the other bed.

Pastor Jim said quietly, "Handmaiden poison in those amounts has a 100 percent mortality rate. As far as I can tell, Dean is the only living person to ever survive the kind of slashing he took."

John frowned. "And?"

"We don't know what effect that will have on him."

John leaned against the railing."He wanted to walk out of the hospital on his own, Jim. Had to order him to sit in that wheelchair."

Pastor Jim sighed. "You and your boys can stay here as long as it takes, John. You know that. In the meantime, let me do a little more research into the effects of the poison, see what I can dig up. I didn't have time before, because it was such short notice, with the feast being held that night. I feel…I feel responsible for Dean's condition."

John huffed. "You? I was told to bring him back alive and well, remember? Sammy and I are going to have it out. You know that. Sooner or later. I'll try to keep the commotion and the casualities down to a minimum."

Jim smiled a little. "He had rock salt in that sawed-off. Your shotgun from your closet."

"Huh. Figures. Did he put it back?"

"I don't think so."

"Huh. That figures too."

"My point is that I would like to pray over Dean, at the very least. The hospital attended to his physical needs, brought down the fever…"

"And you want to attend to the spiritual."

"Yes. Yes, I would." Pastor Jim shrugged. "Just to be on the safe side."

"I don't have a problem with that. Don't think Dean will, either. He thinks the world of you, padre."

Jim laughed. He turned and glanced back into the house through the screen door. Dean still sat right where he was before, still staring into the room, his head slightly lowered, probably watching Sam make the beds.

Dean wasn't looking at Sam.

Dean stared at "Minnie", and "Minnie" stared back at him.

She sat on the floor, just inside the bedroom. The Handmaiden looked surprisingly healthy, considering that the last time Dean saw her she was a pile of grey ash and bone. She smiled at him, preened under his attention, and behind her Sam Winchester moved around the room as though he didn't even know she was there.

Dean blinked. Couldn't be. Fucking couldn't be. Bitch didn't have a mark on her.

"I killed you," Dean whispered softly.

She laughed. "That you did, beauty. That you did. You killed us, but my sisters and I changed you." She ran her fingers through her long silver blonde hair as she cast a backward glance at Sam. "Your younger brother." When she turned back around, she showed her sharp teeth in a toothy grin. "He'll make a fine, tender morsel for you, pretty."

"Leave me the hell alone. Leave him the fuck alone, " Dean growled. "Or ---"

"Or you'll what? Kill me? You already did, remember? Oh, it's rare that one such as you practically falls right in our laps. You volunteered to play bait. You wanted this, deep down inside. You want this, but a part of you doesn't. That's why you tried to die. You're one of us now, and it won't take long. And from now on, when you feast, we feast."

Sam turned around, frowning. "Dean?"

"Minnie" laughed. "Go ahead, Dean. Tell your darling baby brother what kind of a monster you are now. Tell him what kind of creature dear old dad brought back instead."

"Shut up,' Dean whispered.

"Tell him, pretty. Tell him…" "Minnie" purred.

"I said shut the hell up---" Dean's eyes widened. Sam was right in the same space as the bitch, and Dean couldn't move, couldn't even open his mouth to warn him---

Sam walked through her and didn't see a thing. "Minnie" disappeared in the blink of an eye.

"Dean? Hey! Dude!" Sam had him by the shoulders, a solid grip. Dean felt the glass slip out of his suddenly numb fingers, heard it when it broke into pieces on the worn hardwood floor, spilled soda and broken glass all over his brown work boots.

…so pretty…

"Dean, you okay? What's wrong?"

Tell him, my beauty. Tell him…

"I'm fine, Sam. Nothin's wrong."

Four hours later, Dean sat in Pastor Jim's kitchen and peered blearily at the liquid in the bowl on the table in front of him. It was thin. Yellow and watery. A few hated vegetables bobbed around on the surface. Little slivers of…was that chicken? Dean leaned forward, and stopped himself with a visible jerk. His vision blurred, his eyes refused to focus that close in. He sat back in the chair with a thump, and the muscles of his back started bitching about the change in position immediately. Crap.

John and Sam sat at the table, and from what Dean could see they had bowls of soup, too, but their bowls didn't look like baby puke. Their bowls were loaded down with big juicy chunks of chicken and vegetables.

"Burger?" Dean croaked hopefully.

"I know you'd probably like a hamburger instead," Pastor Jim explained as he sat down with his bowl.

"If you can keep this down," John rumbled, "I'll fix you a sandwich later."

Dean shook his head. "I'm…'m not hungry."

… make a fine, tender morsel for you, pretty…

John frowned. "Dean?"

"'m not."

…from now on, when you feast, we feast…

Six hours after that it was time to turn in. Sam's bitchface came out in full force. He claimed the twin bed by the wall, stood there in grey sweatpants and a white t shirt, obviously enjoying the fact that John had nowhere to sleep. "You sleep in here, Dad, you're sleeping on the floor."

Dean lay curled up on his bed. His eyes were closed. He was so pale the freckles over his nose stood out like brown sand scattered over a white tablecloth. He had pretended he was asleep at first. He was drifting away now. His breathing was slow, steady, deepening with every passing moment.

John nodded. "All right, Sam. I've slept worse places. It's no big deal." He was too damn casual about it. Too nonchalant. It was a big deal, and they both knew it. John was picking his fights, deliberately chosing not to engage his youngest, letting Sam expend all his anger and energy. Maybe the boy would run out before too long.

And pigs fly. Each and every damn day.

Dean woke up screaming later on that same night.

A/N: This next story arc will deal with Dean's (possible) recovery, physical and mental; also Sam's vengeance on John, and John's response to said vengeance. How far I go depends on the kind of reviews I get, so don't be shy, people. Holla at me. You've been fantastic so far. As you can see, there's no shame in my game. I'm a review junkie, and you guys have well and truly fed my habit. Thank you from the bottom of my heart! Oops, forgot to add this next part: the next chapter will be posted on Sunday.