I figured I should get another chapter out before the weekend was up since now the next two weeks straight need to be geared towards getting through the end of the semester...yay senior year of college...so now I really don't know when I'll update again...sorry...oh, you might want a tissue...or three...or a box...sorry...it wasn't me, I was dead at the time...I was on the moon (kudos to whoever gets the reference from that)...

Chapter 2

Dean didn't know what to do. His brother lay in front of him, deathly still, and still Dean cried. He didn't care who saw him, or what his father would say, he just wanted his brother to be okay. The boy silently berated himself for not being old enough to know what to do, even as he pulled his tee shirt off and started to mop the blood off of his brother. The younger boy's face was scraped badly; his left eyebrow was split with a deep gash. Both of Sam's forearms were scraped raw as well, and Dean could see both bones in his brother's right arm sticking through the skin. The sight made his stomach turn, and he wanted to run far away. He couldn't though, Sam needed him, and so he banished the thought from his head.

"SOMEONE HELP ME, PLEASE!" Dean called again, and jumped when he felt a hand on his back. He looked up through tear-obscured eyes and saw Emily holding out the light jacket she had been wearing. He took it and smiled, piling it under Sam's head carefully as he log rolled the boy onto his back. "Can you call my father? He'll know what to do. Wait, no. Call for help first. Someone has to come help him. I can't do it. I promised Dad I'd take care of him, and…he needs help. Please. He's gotta be okay. He's…"

"Dan…"

"Dean."

"Dean. I'm going to go call 911 and get my mother. She's a nurse, she'll help him, okay? Just calm down and your brother will be just fine."

Dean took heart in her words, not letting himself think otherwise, and took a deep breath before turning back to his brother. Sam looked worse, he thought, than he had just minutes beforehand. Now, however, the twelve-year old had his wits more about him, and moved to stave off the worst of the bleeding. A small piece of his sleeve was jabbed into the laceration on Sam's eye, and the rest of it was jammed between Dean's knee and Sam's left arm, keeping pressure on the wound. Sam's legs were both bloodied and rubbed raw from the pavement, and there was a jagged cut running from his left knee up under his shorts. Here, Dean wadded up the rest of his shirt and slammed it down on the leg, pushing as hard as he could. Moving so that he could rest his own left leg on the makeshift gauze, Dean kept probing.

The older Winchester caught sight of his brother's right arm again. The wound was still bleeding sluggishly, and Dean knew that he needed to pay more attention to it. He needed something to bind it with, and he had little left on him. Looking at Sam's already ripped shirt, the boy grabbed his knife from where it was nestled and cut the fabric away from his brother. His father had taught him how to reset bones when Sam was six, and so, with only an instant to close his eyes and grab the arm lest he lose his nerve, Dean did as his father had taught.

The pain brought his baby brother back to consciousness, and a cry ripped from his lips, the sound of it breaking Dean's heart. Pain-laced eyes sought his, and Sam whimpered. His breath hitched, and his eyes clenched shut again. "Dean," the word was barely even a whisper, but it was music to the older boy's ears.

Dean smiled, but by the time it reached his face, Sam's eyes had clouded in pain again, and then slid shut. They didn't open again. Dean didn't have the luxury of taking heart in this, simply wrapped the broken arm in Sam's tee-shirt and took the time to breathe again.

That breath caught in his throat and choked him, threatening to send him into hysterics again when he saw the angry bruises that covered his little brother's chest and stomach. The bright purples and reds assaulted Dean's vision, and he could see the light tinges at the center that showed how much blood had escaped it's intended path and was now pooling where it shouldn't. These bruises ran deep, and Dean didn't want to imagine what that meant. A strangled cry ripped from his lips when he didn't notice his brother's chest rising, and his hands started to shake.

"Oh God, oh man, oh no, oh shit. Sammy. No, no, please." Dean lay over his brother, the only way he could reach the boy's mouth, and felt to see if he had made a mistake. He hadn't. Dean turned to start rescue breathing for his brother. It was only a few minutes later when he felt the same hand on his shoulder again.

"Dean, let my mother help. She knows what to do."

"I have to help him. He's not breathing, and he's bleeding, and I need to help him."

A petite woman cupped his chin with her hand, kneeling down across from him and looking into his eyes. "And you are, child. You have been helping him. Do you think I could help you help him?" Her words were soft, and Dean found himself relaxing a little. Adults could help better than he could. He nodded.

"Good. Why don't you move so that you can push down on that cut there harder, and Emily will hold onto that wound there, okay? Good boy." The woman didn't say anything else as she checked Sam's pulse and continued breathing for him.

Dean didn't remember how long he watched, helplessly, as the woman stroked his brother's hair and breathed in for him every three seconds. He took what comfort he could in seeing his brother's chest rise and fall every time she did so, and also, with somewhat of a deranged logic, that he could still feel the warmth of his brother's blood pushing up against his tee-shirt and his hand. If the boy was still bleeding, then he could still be all right.

When the red flashing lights finally started to blind Dean, his hands were shaking, and his face was pale. Emily's mother was still breathing for his brother, but his hope was fading. Sam should have started breathing again by now, he should be whining about how much it hurt; God, Dean would give anything to hear his brother complaining.

He saw the stretcher and backboard come out with the paramedics who raced from their rig to his brother's aid. He saw them start to attach things that he couldn't quite place on Sam, and felt himself being moved out of the way as his job was taken over. The shirt was discarded, and pressure dressings replaced it. Dean stood, unsure of himself, by his brother's feet. Slowly, the men's voices started to break through to him.

"…doesn't look too good, does it? Let's get him in the rig, but…" The paramedic hadn't really thought he was speaking loudly enough to be heard, but he found the lapel of his shirt being grabbed by an irate nurse just after the stretcher had been raised so that the boy could be rolled and transferred to the bus.

"You may want to consider that that is this boy's brother behind you before you open your mouth again." Emily's mother pointed to Dean, and the paramedic turned. He saw wide, fear-filled eyes, and knew that the boy had heard him. The boy looked so small, his skin was so pale. His lower legs were covered in blood from his scraped knees, and the official felt like he had been stabbed. "Son, I…"

Dean didn't wait to hear anymore. It was his fault, all his fault that Sam was hurt, and now he was going to die because Dean had been stupid. He had let some girl get between him and the only one who looked up to him; idolized him no matter what he did; loved him like only a little brother could. He was supposed to protect Sam, and he had been the one that hurt him. It didn't matter that the sports car with a New Jersey license plate had inflicted the physical damage, Dean had caused it, and now Sam was going to die on him. It was all his fault. Sam should get as far away from him as possible, and since he was unconscious, with a bag over his mouth that was breathing for him, Dean did the only thing he thought he could do for his brother. He had to protect him, no matter what the cost.

Dean threw the hunting knife that was still in his hand to the ground and turned from his brother, sprinting away as fast as he could. Tears flowed freely from his eyes, and sobs racked his body, making it difficult to stay on his own two feet, but the guilt was clutching his heart and propelling him forward. He tore away from the apartment complex and bolted down the street, heading for the woods that he and his brother had played in just the day before. He never heard his father's Chevy Impala tear onto the scene, didn't hear John's own anguished cries as he saw Sam. Dean just kept running.

"That's my youngest son! Oh my God, Sammy! What happened to him? Where's Dean? Someone tell me something!" John yelled as he grabbed for his baby boy's hand. It was so cold.

Emily's mother stood in front of him, her five foot three stature not at all menacing to the man. Her background took over, trying to calm the distraught father. "Sir, there was an accident. Your…Sam was hit by a car. Dean got scared and he just ran off. You need to go with these men and your youngest son, and my Emily and I will find Dean and bring him to the hospital after that. You need to go, now. Okay?"

John couldn't think clearly enough to comprehend what she was saying; he just let his body follow her instructions and climbed into the ambulance. He sat down heavily as the paramedics shut the door, one leaving to drive the rig and the other continuing to work on his son.

Emily and her mother watched as the red lights and sirens screamed away. Neither looked down at the blood on the ground or on them. Emily took off after Dean as her mother headed for her car, both intent on finding the boy and getting him back with his brother; or at least his father.

Dean didn't know why he was running, why he hadn't stayed with his brother, and he cursed his stupidity. But for some reason, he couldn't stop himself from sprinting down the street. He couldn't breathe, and his chest was on fire, but instinct drove him on. He left behind the houses and stared straight ahead, his gaze set on the woods looming menacingly in front of him. He had only made it a few feet into the forest when he tripped over a log. He couldn't push himself to his feet, as much as he wanted to. All he could do was crawl to the nearest tree trunk and huddle against it, taking comfort in the pain that came from the bark scratching his raw back.

Dean was afraid. He was afraid like he had been only once before. On that night where his father had shoved his baby brother into his arms and told him to run outside and not look back. The four-year old had been afraid that he would never see his parents again, and now he may never see his brother again.

The pre-teen hugged his legs in closer to his chest, shuddering as his arms slipped on the blood, and he released the extremities, letting them fall in exhaustion. He looked down at his hands, covered in both his and his brother's blood, and before he could understand what was happening, he had rolled to his side and emptied the contents of his stomach repeatedly onto the forest floor. He managed to push himself to his hands and knees; his arms shaking as he continued to expel his lunch, and then began to dry heave.

This was where Emily and her mother found the inconsolable boy, still trying to lay his insides out among the leaves. Emily stood rooted to the spot, not prepared for the pain that radiated off of the boy so plainly. Where was the cocky, self-assured twelve-year old that she had been talking to earlier? This boy looked so shaken, so small, so broken, that she almost couldn't recognize him.

Emily's mother's heart went out to Dean, and her maternal instincts kicked in strongly. Her own heart clenched at the boy's distress and she raced forward, gathering the boy into her arms and sitting back against the tree he had once been using as a backrest. She buried his head into her shoulder and rubbed his back, whispering into his ear and letting him clench her shirt. His sobs echoed through the woods, and the hitching of his shoulders physically shook her. Tears gathered into her own eyes as the boy continued to shake, exhaustion claiming any strength that he may have had. His breathing was ragged and caused him to shake more. She could see the pallor of his skin, and could tell that shock was claiming him. While trying to quiet him, she sent her daughter back to the car for her husband's coat in the trunk. She resettled Dean more fully onto her lap and held him close, lending him what strength she could, and simply enveloping the boy in her hug. It was all she could do for him until he was responsive again.

Dean could only just remember what it had felt like to be comforted by a mother figure, but he couldn't understand why anyone thought he deserved it. He had killed his brother just moments before, and now someone sought to console him. He didn't have the strength to fight it, however, and found that the soothing pattern on his back was calming him down some. All he could do was grip the shirt he was turned to as tightly as he could, as if it was his only link to sanity, to the hope that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't be hated by everyone forever.

Still the boy's breath hitched, still he shook, still he sobbed into this woman's shoulder, and still his muscles twitched and shivered in fear. But the breaths were no longer choking him, the shaking was no longer rocking him, the tears were no longer stinging his eyes, and the shivers were no longer stealing all of his strength. He was unaware of anything going on around him, he didn't feel his arms being stuffed into jacket sleeves, didn't notice as peroxide was poured over his knees and they were cleaned up. He quieted slowly, and started to stare blankly ahead. He had failed, done so just so completely and utterly that he almost couldn't understand it. It didn't matter to him that it was his brother who hadn't looked where he was going, that it was the driver of the car and not Dean who had hurt his brother, all that mattered was that Sam had been chasing that ball because Dean had been selfish, and in being so, he had killed his brother.

Dean felt someone pulling him to his feet and laying his arm across their shoulders. He didn't want to think about anything, and so he simply allowed himself to be led forward, following along like a shadow of the boy he normally was.

Emily shouldered Dean's weight and led him out of the woods and back to the street. She reached for the back door of her mother's car and eased the boy in, swinging his feet into the car and buckling his seatbelt. If she hadn't been so concerned, the teenager would have thought the boy so much like the small children that she often babysat when they were so tired that they couldn't function. But she was painfully aware of the fact that it wasn't strictly exhaustion that was preventing Dean from moving, and the guilt that had sent him into this catatonic state was also at the pit of her stomach. She, too, had been distracting Dean from his brother, coming down to see what the boy was really like. She was unaware that he was only twelve, and was happy to have a boy pay attention to her. Logically, she knew that she had tried to send Dean back to Sam, but it didn't make seeing the small body take on the fast car any easier.

When the car started up, Dean panicked. The pain was still too fresh and being in an object that had just killed his brother terrified him. His breath quickened as the car sped on towards the hospital, and he started to hyperventilate.

Emily saw the boy panic and reacted. She grabbed his chin and turned his head to hers, making Dean look into her eyes.

"Dean. We're going to take you to your father and brother. Everything is going to be all right if you just calm down. Breathe, kid, just breathe." She kept talking to him until he started to nod back at her and take deep breaths.

After that, the boy just stared straight ahead, concentrating on breathing. Emily had said that she would take him to his father. John would know what to do; he would make Dean feel better. Or would he? Dean didn't know suddenly if he wanted to see his father. What would the man say? Would he, too, blame Dean for Sam's death? Would he see what Dean saw, or could the man forgive him? He had spent his sons' lives teaching Dean how to keep Sam safe, and the boy had failed.

The car stopped, and Dean just sat there. Emily's mother opened the back door and bent down. "Dean? Come on. Your father's inside."

"I can't. I killed him. I can't."

The whispered confession tore at the mother's heartstrings. Tears checked at the corners of her eyes as she leaned into the car and unbuckled his seatbelt. "Come on, child. We don't know anything yet. Let's go find your father."

Dean just nodded. He didn't have the strength to do anything else, and he tumbled out of the car. Standing on shaky legs, he followed the women into the hospital.

They entered the hospital and the all-too-familiar stench of it reached Dean's nose. He shuddered and barely heard as he was pointed in the direction of the emergency waiting area.

Dean dragged his feet through the doors alone, having been left by Emily's mother as she sought out one of her co-workers to find out about Sam. He wasn't sure where Emily was. Tears still marred his cheeks, and his arms wrapped around his ribs in the jacket that hung off of him. His bare chest still showed underneath. The boy looked up and searched out the one person he needed to find. He wasn't hard to spot.

"Dad." The boy's voice was weak and quivered in uncertainty. His father was crumpled into a hard, unforgiving chair, his head cupped in his hand, the shoulders hunched as his elbows rested on his knees.

John's head swiveled up and glared at his son, and Dean's heart dropped into his stomach. After all of this, Dean was afraid.

"Daddy?"

TBC...

Remember...it wasn't me...Review? let me know if you want to kill me for this? Please?