Chapter 1

"When is Daddy coming home?" Little footsteps had preceded this, and Dean turned gladly from his homework, welcoming the distraction. Who cared about how many oranges seven people could have if there were thirty pieces of fruit and three of the people needed twice as many as the others? Dean only needed how to split things up in threes…making sure Sam got a little extra when he could.

"Should be home late tonight, Sammy. Maybe before you go to bed, but I doubt it. He said he'd bring you to school tomorrow morning though." Dean watched Sam smile; he knew the boy loved being able to ride in the front seat of the big, black Chevy Impala. He said he felt like a race car driver. Dean wished that Sam could be a race car driver one day, but he knew better. Still, he would never squash his brother's dreams.

Dean watched the boy scuff his feet on the worn tile floor and tried not to look bored. Eight-year olds aren't known for having the longest of attention spans, and while his brother had made sure that the small television got enough receptions for some cartoons, Sam wasn't interested in them.

"You want to come help me with my homework, Sammy?"

The boy scowled. "If I help you with it, how will you ever learn it?" Dean wasn't surprised. It wasn't that Sam didn't think he could help; they both knew he could do the math already. It was that he had some sense of honesty that neither Dean nor his father could understand.

Dean frowned. He really didn't want to do the work, but his teacher had already threatened detention once if he missed another homework assignment, and he wasn't keen on telling his father that. "Come on, Sammy. It's really easy stuff. If I get it done before dark, maybe we can go outside and kick that old basketball around a little bit. But if I have to do all of this by myself, then it's going to take forever, and we won't be able to play."

Sam rolled his eyes, but the thought of being able to play outside with his brother was too appealing. "Give me it, but you've got to write out the work or Daddy will find out."

The thought hadn't crossed Sam's mind that his brother was four grades above him in classes; that he shouldn't be able to figure out the pre-algebra problems. He had been staring at Dean's textbooks since he was old enough to read. When his father and brother weren't looking, he had worked on the math problems in the book, and they were easy to him now.

Dean stared at the boy as he rattled off numbers and flew through the problems faster than the older boy could even comprehend. Sam's class at school was working on their easy multiplication tables, and here he was doing a seventh grader's work like he'd been doing it since he was in diapers. No wonder Dad had to talk to Sam's teacher last week because the boy was goofing off in class. They had both thought that, like his older brother, the boy had simply realized the pointlessness of the classes. Their father would teach them everything they needed to know. He would have to figure out some way to tell John about the family genius.

The offending math homework was finished in record time, and Dean held his end of the bargain. Grabbing a pair of sunglasses that he had found in their last 'home' that he thought made him look cool, he led the boy outside to find the basketball. There wasn't much to keeping Sam happy, Dean decided as he kicked the ball back to his brother while checking out the girl two floors up. All he had to do was kick some dumb ball away from him and his kid brother was as happy as could be. To him it was redundant, and a waste of time, but if it made the boy across from him smile and laugh, it was worth it.

"Dean! Stop kicking it so hard. I'm not going to be able to stop it." Sam whined when the ball almost sailed past him again. He knew that his brother was trying to impress the girl sitting on the fire escape to his left, but couldn't understand why. Girls were silly and had no point to them, but his brother loved to talk about her curly hair and how she walked. Sam wanted to throw up every time Dean started, but he knew from the stories the other boys at school told that his brother wouldn't want anything to do with him soon, so he listened to his brother's stories and dream scenarios. He couldn't imagine what it would be like not having Dean care what he did.

Dean glared as the girl looked down and shook her head before walking back into the apartment. His brother could be such a pain sometimes. He turned his attention back to kicking the ball and tried to ease up. He forgot sometimes, usually after their sparring lessons, that his brother was still smaller than him and not nearly as strong yet.

Dean smiled again when, a few minutes later, the girl came out and sat on the back steps, drawing a picture in a notebook. The boy took a few more passes from his brother before walking over towards her. He was determined to get to know her name at least.

"Dean…Dean, come on. Kick the ball back. Hey!" Sam rolled his eyes and sighed. "DEAN!" He was rewarded with a wide pass, but at least he had the ball back now. Sam scrambled after the ball, stopping it before it could roll into the street. He dribbled the ball in a circle for a little bit, then kicked it off the wall of the complex until some woman poked her head out of a window and yelled at him for making so much noise. He figured that Dean had been talking to that girl for long enough and should pay attention to him again. Being a pesky little brother had its perks, after all.

Sam kicked the ball over to his brother again, watching with satisfaction as it bounced off Dean's ankle. He smiled, and waited patiently, fully expecting his brother to leave the girl and come back to playing with him. The younger boy didn't understand why Dean just kicked the ball with the back of his heel, never turning to even look at Sam, but he heard Dean's words, and his smile fell.

"Nah, it's not important. It's just my little brother. Don't worry about him."

Sam hung his head, the words of his classmates ringing in his ears. He hadn't wanted to believe them; Dean was different, Dean wouldn't abandon him for a girl. He was wrong, and Sam hated to be wrong. Tears threatened, but Sam refused to let them fall. He was eight years old now, he wasn't a baby. But, being that young, he knew exactly how to get back at his brother for the comment…he could annoy him to death. With that resolve, Sam began kicking the ball as hard as he could towards Dean and that girl, letting it bounce off of the wall so that the other boy couldn't stop him.

Dean heard the ball banging off the wall next to him; he could even see it out of the corner of his eye. He loved his brother, anyone who ever questioned him on that would quickly discover the joys of a split lip or black eye, but the eight-year old was starting to really piss him off. He knew that he should tell him to stop, or go back to playing with him, but he had found out the girl's name, and she was starting to really warm up to him. Emily was playing with her hair and batting her eyelashes at him, and Dean was smitten. All he could picture was tying the boy behind him up and stringing him up by his ankles in their closet, however, and it wasn't something he wanted to continue. It was distracting him to say the least.

Emily kept asking if he wanted to go back to playing his little game with Sam, and Dean couldn't find a way to get her to stop. The fourteen-year old in front of him was quite possibly the most beautiful blonde he had ever laid eyes on that paid attention to him, and he didn't want her concerned with Sam. She thought it was cute that he was playing with the boy, and was gushing over the little one's long hair and the blue eyes that she had seen staring up at Dean before. Dean wanted to be sick. How could she be that enthralled with a little kid when he was standing right in front of her in as much glory as he could muster?

"Maybe he just wants some attention, Dan…you should go keep him company, and I'm sure he'd stop."

"Dean. My name is Dean, and Sam is fine by himself. He's used to it. Now, I was saying…" He stopped when the basketball hit him in the back of his leg so hard that his knee almost buckled. Biting back a grimace, the twelve-year old rolled his eyes and turned around. He glared daggers at the boy who's own eyes were wide, and kicked the ball as hard as he could, letting it soar far over Sam's head before turning back to Emily.

Sam hadn't meant for the ball to hit Dean again. He had aimed wrong, trying to get the ball to lift into the air so that it flew past his brother's head. He cringed when his brother's knee bent a little, expecting Dean to turn and come pin him to the ground. He wasn't sure that sparring out in the parking lot was allowed, and wondered if he and his brother would get into trouble when their father found out. The man was a big advocate for not letting anyone see exactly how skilled either boy was at fighting unless it was absolutely necessary, and Sam couldn't figure how scrapping outside their apartment could be seen as needed.

He wasn't surprised, then, by the look his brother shot him, knowing that he had overstepped his bounds. But on the other hand, Dean had promised to play with him, and now he was ignoring him. He watched the other boy's foot pull back and a smile started to cross his face. His brother wasn't abandoning him for some girl; he was going to play with him again. Then the smile fell when the ball left the ground. There was no way the ball was going to fall before it passed Sam. Hurt and disappointment, and a little bit of guilt mixed through Sam's emotions, and showed plainly on his face, but only Emily saw it. Sam dropped his gaze to his feet and sighed. Determined to still have fun, though, the boy turned to chase after the ball.

There is a problem with eight-year old boys. They tend to have one-track minds; and repeated warnings and lectures about their safety and how to ensure it tend to only stick for so long when they have a goal in mind. It doesn't matter how many times they have done so before, it only takes one time to forget what they are supposed to do, how important it is for them not to forget, and that time is almost always the worst one to do so.

Sam wanted to chase down the old basketball that he and his brother had found only a few days beforehand, and he wasn't thinking about anything else. He wasn't willing to lose it, since it was one of the few toys that he and Dean had that couldn't kill someone or something without a really big stretch of the imagination. To Sam, it was the best thing in the world. And if his brother was going to blow him off for some girl, and leave the boy to his own devices, then he was going to keep the one thing that reminded him of how Dean was once. He couldn't leave the ball and find a new one. He had to have this one.

He watched the ball bounce once directly behind where he'd been standing, and then take off again, and he chased after it. It was the only thing he could see, and so he ran for it without thinking of anything else. The ball bounced a few more times before rolling, and still Sam chased after it. He had just overtaken it and trapped it with his foot, reaching down to pick it up when he heard Dean yell. Sam had enough time to roll his eyes and stand straight up, not impressed that his brother was finally paying attention to him when he saw why the older boy had yelled. Sam gasped, and his eyes went wide.

Dean hadn't thought Emily would find anything wrong with him getting rid of his brother's ball, and was surprised when she had glared at him.

"You should be nicer to your kid brother. He looks like he adores you still. That's really sweet, and I wish my sister still looked up to me like your brother does. You'll miss it when it's gone."

"I…we…" Dean sighed. "I know I should. I've never done that before, I'm sorry. I just wanted to…"

"Dan!"

"Dean. It's Dean."

"Whatever. Oh my God! Look!" Emily pointed with one hand as the other clapped over her mouth.

Dean looked at her like she had two heads before spinning, wondering what kind of supernatural being could have snuck up on him that quietly and why his father didn't know about it. His hand went instinctively to the knife under his tee-shirt before he had turned around, but when he did, the knife, Emily, his father, and any thought of the supernatural was wiped from his mind. Time slowed to a crawl, and Dean would swear that he stood there, rooted into that one spot, for an eternity. His eyes widened, and his breath caught in his throat. His mind screamed at him to run, to yell, to throw his forgotten knife; anything to stop the inevitable. His heart told him that he could never get to Sam in time; that he was going to lose the boy, something he had sworn to himself never to do. His muscles reacted when his mind screamed, and the instant that passed between Emily yelling and his moving was miniscule.

"SAMMY!" He yelled at the top of his lungs as his feet propelled him forward faster than if Satan himself was nipping at his heels. He felt like he was running through a swamp, a task he had done once with his father, and his chest was on fire. Tears were already gathering at the corners of his eyes, and nothing had even happened yet. Dean saw Sam stand up, could see the boy's eyes rolling, and guilt shot him straight in the heart.

Then he heard the horn. He saw the red car that had made the noise. Dean heard the sharp intake of breath that his brother took. He saw Sam's eyes widen. Then he heard tires squealing. He watched, detached, as the basketball in his brother's hands went flying back into the safety of the parking lot. He heard the loudest thump he could ever remember. He saw two tons of steel plow into his brother. He heard someone scream; he was surprised to realize the sound had come from him. He watched the boy spin around and fly up into the air. He heard a car accelerating. He saw the license plate and instantly memorized it. He heard his heart pounding in his chest. He stared as Sam crashed to the ground and rolled. Then he didn't hear anything else, and that scared him more than anything. He kept running.

Dean dove to the ground; he didn't feel the skin tearing from his bare knees as he slid across the pavement to his brother's side. Sam's face was bloody, his eyes closed. Fear still gripped the younger boy's features, and his skin was already a pale gray. The boy's right arm was mangled, and his tee-shirt was ripped. Dean saw something splash onto his brother's forehead, clearing the offending red substance momentarily, showing him the baby skin that was still part of his brother. He felt the warmth on his cheeks and realized that his tears were washing the blood off Sam's forehead.

There was so much red. Sam's blond hair was covered in it. His gray tee-shirt was saturated. His knees and lower legs were soaked. Dean was sure there wasn't a single part of his brother that wasn't bloody.

How could Sammy still be alive? Why had that car been going so fast? Why hadn't it stopped? Who could do this to his brother? Why had he kicked the ball so hard? Why was he so interested in some girl? Oh God, this is all my fault. I…the ball…Sammy…Dad…oh God.

"Sammy? Oh God, please. Sammy? Sammy, answer me. Oh man, oh man, oh man. Sammy, come on. You're okay. You have to be okay. Sammy? Oh God. SOMEONE HELP ME, PLEASE!"

TBC...

Oops...I swear I didn't do it...it was all...the WB's fault...if they would be playing new episodes starting this week and not in 6 weeks I wouldn't be watching old episodes...and getting ideas...but I didn't do it...I swear...

Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far, it means alot that people like my stories...