AN: As promised, a second chapter tonight. It's really a continuation of the last one, but it would have been too long all together. Sorry for the angst but at least there's some Bobby!

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John and Dean moved quickly to avoid prying eyes, and soon had Sam inside, but Dean froze when he saw the plastic drop cloth on the floor. Intellectually, he knew that placing Sam on the floor gave them more room to work and the cloth was to keep the blood – human and monster – as contained as possible and the beds clean and dry. But the most common use of that type of cloth for the Winchesters was for wrapping bodies that had to be transported, and Dean's mind balked at the thought of laying his brother there.

"It's just until we get him cleaned up," said Dad, kindness and impatience warring for dominance in his voice.

Dean knew that. He forced his legs to work again, then he and Dad were their normal efficient unit, pulling off Sam's shirts so they could clean him up and find all of his injuries. Of course, that was when Sam began to fight. His fists were wild and his eyes unfocused, but panic gave him strength, and Dean was trying hard not to hurt him. Dad swore as a long leg knocked him back, and Dean could see the wound on Sam's torso bleeding harder again.

Dean took a good shot to his left cheekbone before he got the Sam's arms folded across his chest and pinned under his weight. Sam didn't let up, squirming and crying out half-slurred phrases and a lot of noes. The sounds of his brother's distress broke Dean's heart a little.

"Hold him, Dean," growled Dad as Sam bucked again.

Dean wanted to snap back, I'm trying, but instead responded, "yes, sir," and leaned a little harder.

"Can't! You can't!" Sam cried, all but whimpering. Dean mumbled reassurances, hardly even aware of what he was saying, as Dad pressed a special preloaded receptacle of morphine against Sam's stomach and pressed the button on the side. They had a number of these modules, which were administered as simply as that. Dean thought they were military issue but had never asked how they got them. Dad guarded them like they were gold. Actually, the only other time Dean had seen one used was when Dad had a compound fracture of his leg and insisted that the boys get him to the car and drive him to the hospital so they weren't connected with the werewolf bonfire.

The medicine acted fast, and in less than a minute, Sam stopped thrashing and simply stared with unfocused eyes, allowing the older two Winchesters to get back to work. They matter-of-factly stripped the teen the rest of the way and wiped off the worst of the green/black tarasque blood to find Sam's injuries.

He had quite a few scrapes, but nothing else of note except the slash across his chest and a large bump on his head that had already stopped bleeding. Dean pulled some sweatpants on his brother as Dad began to flush the wound with saline, then pour hydrogen peroxide over it. That broke Sam out of his 1,000 yard stare, and Dean immediately scrambled up by his brother's head in case he started fighting again, and to offer comfort.

"Sammy? Hey, Sammy, it's okay. We're just trying to help. It's gonna hurt for a bit." Dean wanted to ask Dad to give Sam a second dose of the morphine (it had taken Dad 3 before he could hop to the car, even with a son on each side supporting most of his weight), but he didn't quite dare. High quality supplies like that were difficult to procure. "Sammy, it's Dean. Can you look at me?"

Sam's eyes slowly turned and sort of focused on Dean, though they were more than a little glassy, the pain, blood loss, and drugs all working in tandem to make him pretty out of it. Actually, Dean was surprised he responded at all.

"There you go," he praised. "Look, you're gonna be okay, but Dad's gonna give you some stitches. You gotta hold still for us, okay?"

"De'?" Sam proved he was at least a little more aware than he looked. "Dad too?"

"Yeah, we're right here with you. The stitches are gonna hurt like a bitch. You might just wanna pass out again. That's okay. I got you."

Sam's eyes sharpened slightly, but instead of filling with relief, they only showed horror. "No!" he cried suddenly, much clearer than he'd been a moment before. "No, it was only supposed to be me! Only me!"

"We're not leaving you, Sam," insisted Dean, not understanding Sam's fear and distress. It was a simple fact that Dean's presence normally calmed his brother.

Sam jerked upward and grabbed at Dean's shirt, getting a fistful on his second try. His sudden motion made Dad curse and lose hold of the needle. "You were supposed to be safe!" Sam practically wailed, and his eyes welled with tears. "You shouldn't be here!"

Dean grabbed Sam's biceps to try and both calm him and keep him still. "Sammy! Let us help you!"

But Sam was a million miles away, looking at something Dean couldn't see, and a tear slid into his hair. He began to recite something in Latin in a distant voice. Behind Dean, Dad sucked in a quick breath, his equivalent of a dramatic gasp. Dean turned to look at him without letting go of Sam's arms and saw that all of the blood had drained from the man's face.

"What? Dad, what is it?" Dean demanded, shocked by how haunted his father looked. "Dad?"

Sam repeated the phrase, and John's face closed down like an air lock. Without a word, he reached over and gave Sam a second morphine injection, then went back to stitching. Dean's mind whirled. He knew from experience that Dad's expression meant that he would never answer that question. If Dean wanted to know the answer, he'd have to find it for himself, so he leaned closer to his brother and listened carefully to the next repeat. He may be lousy at Latin, but he had an excellent memory when he so chose.

"Qui fit consignatur infernus animam sum," whimpered Sam. "Dean and Dad aren't supposed to be here." More tears slid down his temples. He blinked twice, heavily, whispered the Latin once more, and went limp, his hand still tangled in Dean's shirt.

As he and Dad finished sewing up Sam, cleaning his scrapes, and getting him settled on the smaller bed, Dean repeated the phrase to himself. If it had Dad so freaked out, Dean knew he had to figure out what was going on. How else could he watch out for Sammy? Bile rose in Dean's throat. He hadn't watched out for Sammy. His 16-year-old brother was lying on the bed passed out from drugs and pain and blood loss because he'd faced down a freaking dragon alone. Alone. He was only alive because of luck and a smart move he'd made, not because of Dean's intervention. He'd kept secrets from Dean and none of that was acceptable.

The least acceptable thing was how pale and still and young Sam looked lying against that bed with the military green covers pulled up to his chin. They'd left him shirtless so they could easily check the wound for drainage and signs of infection, though Dad had sacrificed another part of their special stash – a shot of antibiotics – to help prevent that. Dean couldn't help but peek under the covers where he could see the obscene amount of bandages and bruising covering Sam's side. He was grateful he couldn't see the stitches right now. He might have sewed up Sam a few times, but there was something fundamentally wrong about a needle going in and out of Sam's skin, and the kid had certainly never had such a serious injury.

Dean hastily put the blankets back in place as Dad came out of the bathroom from washing his hands and changing his filthy shirt. "I need more supplies and to pay for a few more nights," Dad said, and there was steel under his words that belied his own stress over the whole situation. "You stay with him." It was an unnecessary command, Dean thought. But then Dad added, "Don't you leave his side for a single second. You hear me? You gotta take a piss, you do it now or you wait until I'm back." He pinned Dean with a stare that could melt asphalt. It was another piece of the puzzle, but Dean couldn't quite see the whole picture yet.

"Yes, sir." He gave the only answer he could. Then Dad was gone.

Dean pushed Sam's hair back to better see his face and for just a moment gave into his terror, letting two tears slide down his face. Then he shored up his defenses, wiped his sleeve over his face, and dialed Bobby's number.

Dean paced as the phone rang.

"How's Sam?" Bobby answered in his typical abrupt way.

"He's hurt, Bobby, got like 40 stitches and I think two cracked ribs, plus a bump on his head. But looks like he'll be okay if there's no infection. He's out right now, but he was awake and talking for a while. Dad went out to get supplies." There. His voice hardly broke as he reported on the stupid kid's injuries.

Bobby blew out a breath gustily. "Good. That's good. He won't dare do anything but get better with you watchin' over him. You get hurt? Or your dad?"

"I took a hit to the back of my shoulder," Dean admitted. "But nothing broke the skin." He rotated the shoulder in question and couldn't stop a wince. That was going to be sore for a while. "Listen, Bobby, Sam was saying something when he was out of his head, and I don't know what it means." He reproduced the phrase as best he could, then repeated it again when Bobby didn't respond immediately.

"Sam said that?" asked Bobby softer than usual after Dean finished the second time. There was a lot of…something…in his tone. Something Dean had never heard from the older man. Actually, he had heard it before. Once.

There were a lot of men at Uncle Bobby's house, and they were the kind of men that most people avoided. Dad wasn't pleased, but he hadn't called ahead since he and the other hunter were fighting. Again. Dad told the boys to go play in the back of the lot and stay out of sight of the house.

It was very hot, and it wasn't long before little Sammy was tired. Though Dean wasn't tired, he laid down in the shade so Sam would follow suit. He told stories until Sammy's breathing evened out and the boy slumped against him. Dean didn't push him away despite the heavy heat of the July day. Instead, he just tried to imagine what shapes the scant clouds could be. Somewhere along the way, he fell asleep too.

"Dean? Sam? Where are you?" Dean jerked awake, nearly dislodging his clingy little brother who had climbed almost entirely on top of him in his sleep. There was something in Uncle Bobby's voice Dean had never heard before.

"We're here!" Dean called, and Bobby's face appeared around the rusted out body of a Silverado. The normally stoic man looked scared and relieved all at once. Dean never did find out what had Bobby so worried, only that he and John had been looking for the boys for a good 20 minutes before finding them.

Well, that tone was back, and Dean hated it. "Yeah. More than once." And Dad turned white as a sheet and wouldn't tell me what it means, Dean thought but didn't add. "What does it mean, Bobby?"

"Dean – "

"Please tell me, Bobby."

The hunter knew just how much Dean hated to beg, and he sighed sadly. "Oh, Dean. It means he who takes his own life is consigned to Hell."

Dean thought of Sam's panicked cries that Dean and Dad weren't supposed to be there. He thought about how Sam had been throwing himself into the thick of every hunt, uncaring of his own safety. Dean's legs went soft beneath him and he found himself sitting on the stained carpet, a heavy whooshing in his ears.

A voice gave Dean a bit of focus, and he realized he still held the phone in his hand. "I'm okay, Bobby," he said by rote, his voice sounding distant even to himself. "I just – I'm just surprised is all."

Bobby's voice, which had been all but yelling to get his attention, softened. "I know, boy. Do you want me to come there until your dad gets back? I'm less 'n 30 minutes away."

"No, Bobby. I got this. I need to – I'm going to keep an eye on Sammy." Dean stood. "I'm good. Thank you for burning the body. I gotta go." He hung up on Bobby's protests and half stumbled back to the bed where Sam lay. He was angry and hurt and determined, and the last was growing stronger by the second as the strength also came back to his body.

Even though Sam was still deeply unconscious, Dean put a hand on each side of the kid's face and leaned close. "Not. On. My. Watch. Sammy. You hear me? Never again."

* * *

Four hours later

Bobby stood outside the no-tell motel cursing that day back in 1985 that he'd let John Winchester carry his sleeping sons through the door into the house. Before they'd left a few hours later, a tiny Sammy had crawled into Bobby's lap and a slightly larger Dean had threatened his life if he so much breathed wrong on his baby brother, and Bobby had been completely sunk. How could he have known how deeply those two would worm their way into his life? He was the gruff, no-nonsense hunter that others called for advice but never for sympathy or any of that shit.

Until Sam and Dean. Sam never got the memo that Bobby didn't cuddle. Dean wasn't the slightest bit intimidated by his glare. Even when they were no longer cute little ankle biters, he worried about them all the time like some freaking mother hen. He'd even asked John if the little family wanted to move in with him, or if the boys should at least stay until they were done with school. Bobby hardly let anyone stay for a meal, much less suggest anyone move in. But there was something about those boys.

So here he stood. He'd driven just over 400 miles because he was worried about them, and he'd done it in six hours. He'd burned the body and it gave him plenty of time to think about the red, human blood on one of the thing's nightmare claws and the ground next to its body. The image of a teenage Sam – who hated hunting and killing – nearly being crushed by the colossus was bound to star in Bobby's dreams for a while. He could only imagine how Dean and John felt. And he had no doubts whatsoever that if Sam died Dean would commit suicide by monster within a few months. Those two were bound tighter'n two strands of a braided rope.

Bobby still stood in the gray predawn, unable to shake the horror of goofy, smart, kind, silly Sam feeling such despair that he wanted to end his life. Leave his brother. And his dad. And Bobby himself. How had they gotten there?

Bobby had found the Impala easily enough, but he wasn't truly family, and he had no right to go inside. Closer to tears than he'd been in…well, years, Bobby turned toward the poorly lit motel office. He'd get his own room, stay and sleep a while, if that was in the cards, and hope he at least got a chance to see the boys before he made the lonesome drive back to Sioux Falls. Because at the end of the day, and not matter how much it sometimes felt otherwise, the boys weren't his.

Damn it.