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Chapter 12

"Sammy? Sammy! Come on man!" Dean pleaded to his unconscious brother who lay on the ground, his head elevated by Dean's leg. Sam was sprawled out on the wet asphalt, his head resting in Dean's lap; Dean had his arms wrapped around Sam's shoulders, pulling him in tightly as though if he let go, Sam would be torn away from him again.

Dean placed fingers to his brother's neck and thankfully noted the weak pulse, but didn't fail to notice the deep, scabbed over wound that sliced across the length of his brother's throat. A series of scenarios flashed through his mind, and he wished to hell he could know right there everything there was to know about Sam's past seven years – where had he been, what had happened to him in that time, and why the fuck did he look like he was on death's doorstep?

"Come on Sammy, don't do this to me, we only just got you back!"

Sam made no movement or sound, and Dean realized that if he hadn't checked his pulse, he'd probably think he was dead from the sight of him. He caressed Sam's cold cheek, noticing the ways his brother had changed since he'd last seen him. Dean's memory showed a little boy, a child, chubby and sweet, tiny feet scampering around the motel room begging his big brother to play with him. The boy had known things no boy should ever know, but his eyes still voiced a sense of pure innocence and naked vulnerability that Dean was thankful had been preserved in his brother.

Sam was so different now. His body had grown phenomenally; he was no longer a child. He'd lost his baby fat; his cheeks no longer begged grandma-like pinching and his limbs were long and slender. Dean looked to his brother's legs, and gave a small half-smile at the realization that his brother was almost as tall as he was. Beneath his hands, Dean could feel the same muscular figure that he possessed; though Sam was far skinnier and a little gangly. Sam was no longer a boy, but a young man.

His father's worried calls tore him from his thoughts, and he almost slapped himself when he realized he'd let his guard down enough for John to approach him without hearing him.

"Dean!" John yelled, as though he'd repeated himself several times already.

Dean forced his eyes shut and then opened them again, partly to clear his head and partly to blink away the tears he did not want his father to see.

"Dad..." He started, choking as he started to speak, not sure how to explain whose body rested in his arms.

John towered above Dean, looking down at the body of the boy who rested in Dean's lap; Dean's right arm was wrapped around the boy's shoulders, and his left underneath the boy's head. He cradled the head, pressed against his own chest, as though he wanted him to hear his heartbeat.

"Dean? What the-" John stopped himself as he noticed his son's tears, Dean looked up at him almost pleadingly, as though he wanted to speak but wasn't sure how. "Dean?" he added, hoping it would be enough.

Dean didn't respond immediately, he sniffled a little bit and looked back down at the boy, whose face was hidden by shadows.

"Dad…" he started, and John moved a little closer. Dean's eyes didn't leave the boy, and John didn't miss the way Dean lifted his right hand and lovingly stroked the boy's cheek, his hand resting to cup his jaw.

It was barely a whisper, and for a moment John wondered if he was hearing things; but never in his life could he miss that one word, no matter how quietly it was spoken. He'd trained himself to listen just for it, to never miss the name, and this time was no different. "Sammy…" Dean whimpered, and in a flash John had dropped to his knees and taken the boy from Dean's arms. Dean's eyes displayed panic for a moment, and John felt a stab of guilt at tearing his sons apart again after all these years, but he could not ignore his own need to see – no, feel – his youngest boy once again.

John leant over the body of the boy, and at the moment the light revealed his face, he knew. He knew that this child was his; the boy who lay beneath him was his baby.

"Sammy," he wept, his shame to cry in front of his eldest obstructed by his overwhelming relief at the sight of his family, together again. Dean knelt on the other side of Sam, holding Sam's hand in his own. John wished for a selfish moment that Dean weren't there; he wanted so badly to be alone with his youngest son; and he knew Dean probably felt the same.

His hands cupped his son's drained face; holding his head above the cold, wet ground. He stroked Sam's cheek, kissing him on his chilled forehead before he gingerly bundled him up in his own arms and instructed Dean to get in the backseat.

Dean obeyed immediately, and threw himself into the car, carefully pulling Sam's head to rest on his thighs after John passed Sam into him. John slammed the doors, rushing around to the driver's seat and starting the car.

"Dean," John started intently, instantly gaining Dean's divided attention. Part of Dean remained focused on Sam, brushing his long hair out of his eyes and whispering quiet comforts that John could not hear. Dean made a noise to indicate that he was listening, and John continued, "How bad is it?"

Dean knew why his father asked this – he wanted to know if a trip to the hospital was necessary. Dean knew why John was reluctant; years ago, John and Dean had sucked it up and informed the authorities of Sam's disappearance in their desperation. Nothing had come up, and Sam's case had long since gone cold and been forgotten amongst others, but if Sam showed up, he'd be pulled away from his family in order to uncover the truth and find the man who took him.

Not that either of them were against taking down the bastard who took Sam, but they wanted this done their way. And they certainly didn't want Sam taken from them for interviews and police proceedings – they had no idea what Sam had been through, and they did not want him to relive any trauma that he shouldn't have to.

Dean complied, and began to search his brother's body for wounds. He'd hoped for a moment that Sam had simply collapsed out of exhaustion; the bags under his eyes and his weakness supported this, and Dean agreed that it was likely a contributor to his state, but the moment Dean lifted Sam's sweatshirt, all his hopes fell.

An angry, deep slash across half of Sam's chest was poorly stitched and Dean prayed to himself that Sam hadn't had to do that himself. The wound looked severe, and painful as hell, but it wasn't infected, and Dean pushed back the thoughts that pointed logically to the fact that Sam had been attacked. The wound on his neck, this wound on his chest and the multitude of dark bruises that littered his skin confirmed this. Dean's worry peaked at the sight of the swollen, red, puffy wound in Sam's abdomen. It, too, was weakly stitched, but the state of it told Dean it was infected. He lightly pressed his fingertips near it, trying to see through the cracked dried blood how bad it really was. Sam whimpered slightly in his unconsciousness from the pain.

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean apologized as he continued.

"Dean?" John asked, and Dean realized he'd almost forgotten his father's presence. "How bad?"

Dean continued to investigate the wounds until he came to a conclusion. "Jesus, dad, he's been stabbed."

John's sharp intake of breath exemplified his pure horror at his son's state. "Do we need a hospital?" his voice was angry now, and Dean knew he wanted just as bad as he did to destroy the son of a bitch who'd done this to their boy.

Dean thought for a moment – "Dean! We haven't got time!" Johns panicked voice yelled from the front seat.

"It's infected, but we can probably take care of it." His tone was unsure, but John took what he could get.

John didn't reply, just sped off, spitting gravel from underneath the wheels of the car.

"Dad, maybe we should get him to a hospital, just to make sure."

John sighed, "Dean, I don't want to lose him again-"

John stopped speaking as Sam groaned from the back of the car.

Dean watched on, relieved, as Sam's eyes fluttered open slowly; he whimpered and winced at the sensation of the returning pain.

"Sammy? Oh thank god." He quietly spoke, stroking Sam's hair in comfort.

At the sound of Dean's voice, Sam's composure was completely eradicated; he started wildly thrashing about and screaming; his movements were weak, and Dean easily held him down.

"Ssh, Sammy, calm down. It's me, its Dean."

Sam gave no response and showed no change, he continued to resist Dean's hold.

"Get away from me!" Sam's exhausted voice screamed. In the front, John bit his lips to hide the sounds of his sobs. The sound of his son's voice – however panicked, however fearful – was like music to his ears. Because it meant Sam was there, he was breathing, and he was alive, and that was all John had ever wanted.

"Sammy! You gotta stop, you're hurt. It's Dean, I'm here, ok? I'm not goin' anywhere."

Sam tired, again showing little recognition of the words Dean spoke. His eyes drooped and Sam visibly fought against unconsciousness, but to no avail. He stopped lashing out at Dean, his eyes barely open anymore. "Please," he begged in a whisper, "don't take me back."

And with that, Sam was gone again, and the world fell silent once more.

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