A/N: Now it's Dean turn to learn a lesson...So, be prepared for some angst and some owies. Thanks to all who reviewed and especially thanks to my fearless beta, Cati. I keep trying to think of new ways to thank her, praise her, give her credit, and there just aren't words for how awesome she is. I would highly recommend her as a beta but then someone might try to steal her away from me (but I would fight for her until the end...or bribe her with images of Sam's arms, or Sam in all black, or Sam in a cage, or Sam suffering from appendicitis...) I'm aiming for early next week with part three, but no promises (John Winchester is not an easy man to write!)

Lessons in Mortality

Part Two: Never Surrender

Dean adjusted the rabbit ears on the TV, smacking it once for good measure, before he settled back on the couch, mesmerized by the cop drama playing behind the fuzzy lines.

"Can you keep that down?" Sam asked, nodding to the TV, which was spewing more buzzing than actual sound.

Dean leaned back, putting one hand behind his head. "Why? It's not like you're doing anything important."

Seated at the table in the adjoining room, Sam didn't look up. "I've got to get this done."

"It's just homework."

"Yeah, for US Lit. Ms. Treadle's gives the most awful quizzes."

"US Lit? Just BS it."

Sm sighed and glared at his brother. "You don't understand."

"Sure I do. Get your C and move on."

Sam shook his head and kept reading.

"What're you reading?"

"Does it matter?"

"Just curious."

"Right."

The picture on the TV skewed again, this time until it was unrecognizable. Dean made a face and waited a moment before sitting up to readjust the ears. "You could get those one things…uhh...Cliff's Notes?"

"She'd be able to tell."

"Nah," Dean said, sitting back as the picture reappeared. "They never know."

"She does."

"You actually scared of a English teacher, Sammy?"

Sam sighed, staring at the wall, thinking. "She's evil," Sam said.

Dean laughed. "All teachers are evil."

Sam shook his head, looking very serious. "No, I mean, she's actually evil."

Dean glanced at his brother. "I was convinced that my history teacher was evil. I mean, she always seemed to know when I was about to throw things at Diana Curry. That girl had the sweetest smile--she just begged to be flirted with." Dean smiled at the memory. "I swear that woman tried to make it so I'd never get a date."

"Dean, you're not listening to me."

"Sammy--"

"No, I mean, I've been thinking about this for a long time. It's not just her strict policies or her bizarre attention to detail--there's something else about her, Dean."

"You're just upset because you've finally met a teacher you haven't charmed."

"Her car is always the last one to leave and the first one there. The way she carries herself--it's not natural. It's like she doesn't bend or something. Her speech is stunted. She doesn't use contractions--always 'I am' and 'cannot.'"

"She's an English teacher. That's what she does."

"But she wasn't always like that. It's like she was one teacher before winter break and the minute we got back, it was like she was possessed or something."

Dean shrugged. "New Year's Resolution."

"Sometimes I think I see something in her eyes," Sam admitted finally.

Dean straightened, studying his brother. "Contacts?"

Sam met Dean's gaze. "She wears glasses."

Scoffing, Dean said, "You're grasping at straws."

"You know I wouldn't say anything unless I thought it was true."

Dean pondered that, loathe to acknowledge Sam was right. His kid brother had never been one to make up stories or automatically assume supernatural causes for anything out of the ordinary. "Are you sure?"

"She flinches when you say Cristo."

The certainty in his brother's voice was enough to convince him. "So, what do you want to do?"

"Go check it out. Like I said, she's always there, at school. I'm guessing that's where she communes with whatever dark force she's working for."

"At school?"

"Think about it. It's secluded, secure, she has access to a lot of people. It's the perfect location."

"We should do some more research."

Sam tried not to look skeptical. That was usually his line, not Dean's. But he wanted his brother on his side, so he let it go. "I just want to check it out."

"Tonight?"

"Why not?"

"Dad's not home."

"That's the good part."

"Sam-"

"Look, I just want to check it out. I don't think I can sit through another one of her lectures wondering. Come with me."

"Okay, okay. I'll go with you. But we need to tell Dad."

Sam shook his head. "No. I don't want to bring him into this until we're sure."

"Sam…," Dean's voice carried a warning.

"Dean, you said it yourself, all teachers are evil. I'm probably overreacting. The last thing I need is for Dad to think I'm exaggerating."

Dean hesitated, and Sam sensed his opening. "Please?"

"We're taking the book of exorcisms and the holy water."

"Of course."

"And if we get into anything, we're leaving as fast as we can say Cristo."

"Deal."

0000000

Dean parked the car in the empty parking lot, grimacing as he looked up at the darkened building. "I don't miss this place."

Sam rolled his eyes and grabbed his bag. "You never went here."

"You been in one high school, you've been in them all."

"I can't believe they even gave you a diploma," Sam said under his breath and he opened his door. "Let's do this."

Dean gave one last foreboding look before he followed his brother out the car and up the steps. The school was an old, three-story building with a sprawling front lawn punctuated by stately pinoaks.

"I can't believe we're breaking into school," Dean muttered as he jimmied the lock. "Most kids try to break out."

Sam ignored him, glancing around impatiently. "Just hurry up."

"Yeah, yeah."

The lock finally gave way, and Dean grinned as he pulled it open. "School's in session."

Sam just glared at him and rushed past him.

Dean followed Sam through the corridors, grinning as he looked around. "I miss lockers--I used to stick freshmen in them."

"People actually do that?"

"Why not?"

"You must have lived in a bad rerun of Saved by the Bell," Sam muttered.

They quieted as Sam slowed, motioning to Dean they were close. Creeping now, Sam stopped outside classroom 33.

Sam nodded at the door, which was closed. The lights were off.

"Looks like no one's home," Dean said, keeping his voice soft despite the apparently abandoned hallways.

"Her car's in the parking lot."

"You know her car?"

"I've been doing some research on her."

Dean made a face. "Freak."

"Just open the door."

Dean tested the door; the handle gave easily. The brothers exchanged a curious glance.

Noiselessly, Dean inched the door open.

The room was dark and still. Nothing moved. Sam crept inside, poking around in the blackness.

Dean flicked the switch and light filled the room. "No one here, little brother."

Sam wasn't giving up so easily. "Doesn't mean she's not in the building."

"Maybe she left her car here and hitched a ride with someone else."

"Dean, there's something about her that just doesn't add up."

"What, she didn't give you an A+ on your last essay?"

"Come on. Be serious."

"I am being serious. Besides, anyone who'd want to be a teacher…well, they can't be all right in the head."

"She knows Latin."

"Teachers are old--they used to make people learn Latin."

"She's not that old," Sam replied. "And she knows it really well."

"How do you even know that?"

"I was talking about the etymology of words--many of which are Latin, and then--"

Dean shook his head, holding up his hand. "Stop, Sammy. Please. I have no idea what you're talking about, and I don't even want to know. The point is, where is she, Boy Wonder?"

The question made Sam pause. "It's a big school. There are other places where she could hide."

"Sam." Dean was exasperated.

"Dean." Sam was resolute.

"There's no one here. I know it's hard to believe, but some people are just weird. Like you. What kind of kid is actually so convinced that their teacher's possessed that they go seek her out after school hours?"

"You came with me."

"Only to bear witness to your freakishness."

Sam sighed, defeated. "Fine. Let's just go."

"Thank you," Dean said.

Exiting the room, Sam turned off the lights and Dean shut the door.

"You know, Sammy. We could break into the computer system and really create some chaos."

It was Sam's turn to shake his head. "Let's just go home."

"You don't know how to have fun."

Sam ignored him and headed back down the hallway.

"Ooh, or we could go steal all the chalk in the building," Dean said, his voice animated. "Do you know how funny it would be to see all those teachers desperately searching for chalk?"

Ignoring his brother, Sam kept walking.

"Oh, come on, Sammy, that'd be pretty funny."

"Grow up."

"Loosen up. You're the oldest 15-year-old I've ever met. I swear, Sammy."

Sam smiled despite himself, but kept his eyes ahead.

Dean prattled on, but Sam felt a sudden tickle, like a faint wind, a minute whisper passing through him.

"Wait." Sam held out his hand, stopping his brother. "Do you hear that?" Sam asked.

"Cockroaches in the walls?"

"No. Listen."

They stood in silence a moment more and Dean heard it too--a distant definitive repetition of sounds. They could barely make it out from where they were, but it was unmistakable.

"Could be a radio," Dean suggested.

"No one's here," Sam said, moving slowly down the hallway.

Dean rolled his eyes, but followed Sam. Turning a corner, the sound became louder. Someone was chanting. Pushing onward, they saw a light spilling from a doorway. They slowed as they approached, creeping carefully to keep their tennis shoes from squeaking on the linoleum.

The closer they came, the clearer the noise became. The source of the disturbance was a janitor's closet. As they reached it, they could make meaningful Latin phrases muttered in cadence. Sam started to peek in when Dean pulled him back, motioning him away.

They exchanged several brief suggestive glances before Dean finally yanked Sam back down the hall. "We're calling Dad," he hissed.

"We're not even sure it's her," Sam whispered back.

"Does it matter? Something's in there spewing enough Latin phrases to contaminate every young mind that comes through here."

Their whispers were cut off when the hallway suddenly filled with light. They looked back, as they came face-to-face with the very person they'd been looking for.

"Sam, you're here awfully late," Ms. Treadle said with a smile. The saccharine timbre of her voice made Sam shudder.

"Yeah, well, Sammy just forgot his English textbook. Kids these days," Dean said, standing tense and ready for action. "Cristo."

The word sent a terrible tremble through the teacher's body. When she stilled, her eyes darkened menacingly. "You should really be less forgetful," she growled, advancing on the boys.

Dean lunged at her, tackling her as best he could. "Get the book, Sam. We've got to get it out of her."

Sam stared, shocked by the scene unfolding before him. He had been pretty certain in his assumption that his English teacher was possessed, but seeing her so changed was unsettling.

She was a slight woman, but the demon empowered her. Without warning, she punched Dean in the face, sending him sprawling. He hit the ground swearing. "Sammy!"

Spurred into action, Sam began searching frantically through his backpack, muttering curses that he had not cleaned his books out before he came.

Dean grappled with the demon-possessed teacher. Her well-placed kicks were especially painfully with her spiked heals that left angry welts under his clothes. He dodged a punch and caught her off guard, sending her to the ground and pouncing on top of her.

Straddling her, Dean held her wrists, the demon within thrashing and hissing. "Anytime, Sammy."

Sam gave one last disgusted glance before finding the his place and speak. The exorcism rite spurred the demon to desperation. The woman bucked unexpectedly, tossing Dean about, making it difficult for him to secure his grip.

Dean's momentary weakness was the only opening the demon needed. Her eyes flashed darkly and Dean was hurled aside. Sam's speech stumbled as he tried to keep an eye on how the situation was playing out. His words were cut off when the demon flew at him--hard--sending Sam and the book sprawling to the ground.

Dean gathered his senses in time to see the teacher continue her advance on Sam. His brother had landed forcefully against the row of lockers and with dazed coordination was reaching for the closest defense he saw--the holy water in his backpack. He wasn't fast enough. She flung the backpack out of reach, its contents spilling and scattering them across the hallway. Then she grasped Sam, pulling him roughly from the ground, her hand around his neck. Lifting him with inhuman strength, she slammed him into the beat up lockers.

"You cannot stop me, mortal," she seethed, her hand tightening around Sam's throat.

Sam rapidly tried to recall every escape move he had ever been taught, but could come up with nothing more than to claw at the hands that encircled his throat. Her vice grip could not be broken. He kicked, twisted, batted, all to no avail.

Dean's head cleared but he still found it difficult to move. He watched, stunned, as Sam's mouth gaped for air, only to be denied. Panic gripped his kid brother in a way Dean had never witnessed before.

His first instinct was to go after her, break her grip on Sam. But he knew his strength would be useless. The holy water wouldn't be enough to stop her. It was only a quick fix. He had to finish the exorcism.

But where was the book? Dean began to search frantically, all too aware of Sam's increasing terror.

Then he spied it--over beside a trash can. He scrambled toward it and picked it up, flipping frenetically through the pages for the right one. Dean cursed as his fast-paced thumbing yielded no results. He forced himself to go back through it. Keep it cool, he reminded himself. Don't lose focus. He finally found the passage, and Dean did not hesitate to start reading, sparing only a quick glance at the demon who held his brother.

Sam's fight was lessening; his fingers were numb and his body felt heavy and warm. The demon shook him, a sneer on her face, and his hands fell away, dangling at his sides. He tried to move them, to bring them back up to fight, but sensation had faded into a dull weight over which he had no control. His eyelids drooped, the demon's satisfied smile becoming fuzzy. The burning in his lungs became muted and the edges of his world grayed, darkening steadily until all he could see was the gleam in the demon's eyes. Distantly he thought he heard a voice, and words--familiar words--but the world was too hard to comprehend. The darkness seemed soft and he let himself effuse into it.

Dean quickened his pace as Sam fell still. His words jumbled as he read the Latin clumsily.

The demon tossed Sam to the side where he lay in a boneless heap. Having disposed of one threat, she turned in fury upon the other.

Dean shouted the last words, giving a satisfied smirk as the exorcism took effect. The woman shuddered as the demon was expelled violently. She fell to the ground at Dean's feet and all was still.

Too still. Sam still lay on the floor, crumpled exactly how he'd been dropped.

With new apprehension, Dean rushed to Sam's side. Rolling his brother over, his breath caught in his throat. His fingers tingled and his ears buzzed as he tried desperately to deny the truth that approached him.

Sam's face was ashen, his lips a deathly shade of blue. "Sammy?"

Dean's hand shook as it reached out, feeling at Sam's neck. His own heart pulsed hard in his ears, reverberating in his head, but he felt nothing in Sam--not a twitch, not a tremble.

"No…," he breathed. Swallowing hard, he leaned over Sam, straining to hear a faint whisper of a breath, willing a soft tickle to grace his cheek, striving to see some kind of movement in his brother's chest.

Nothing.

Denial melted slowly as the terrible truth settled over him: Sam was dead.

Dean had seen injury; Dean had even seen death. He had stopped keeping track of the number of stitches he had had sewn into his own body and seen etched into his brother's. He tried to forget how many trips he'd sat by Sam on the way to the hospital, pressing a bandage down as he cracked jokes, hoping just to keep his brother conscious.

Dean was no stranger to peril, nor did he treat it cavalierly. He was always concerned, especially when it was his younger brother. But even when things seemed to be spiraling wildly away from the plans that had been laid, he'd always retained a semblance of control, a sense that everything would be okay in the end.

He had seen innocent people die in the crossfire. His mother had been the first, her death the one that had set them all in motion. But death had never dared strike the Winchesters--not again, they made sure of that. They stayed sharp, they watched each other's backs, and they held each other back from the brink.

Until now.

Dean felt detached as his hands mechanically tilted Sam's head. He closed his eyes as he pinched his brother's nose, then blew steadily into his brother's mouth.

Sam's lips were cold to the touch, and Dean watched in morbid fascination as Sam's chest rose and fell with his breath.

It was much harder to start compressions. But the blue hue of Sam's face overrode Dean's numbness. His arms were rigid as his hand pushed down on Sam's chest. He could feel Sam's ribcage move with the pressure. Sam's whole body responded to Dean's ministrations.

His stomach turned, but he swallowed the bile to blow two more breaths into his brother. Sam's chest rose and fell on command, stilling again as Dean repositioned himself for another round of compressions.

Dean heard a crack, felt something shift unnaturally in the body below him, but couldn't bring himself to stop. He was on automatic pilot now, simply doing what needed to be done.

He breathed twice more for Sam, barely able to gather enough air to deliver them.

It felt surreal. He was living for both of them, and that fight was draining him. Sam had fallen over the edge and Dean was holding on tight, clinging to life for both of them. This was the first fight he ever thought he might lose.

Two more breaths, fifteen compressions.

Fear pulsed through his veins like ice, and the reality of the situation almost overpowered him. But Dean had been taught to never give in to fear, to instead use it as strength. Emotions slid off him, harmlessly and without penetration.

Breathing. Compressing.

Dean had also learned never to cry. Tears were weakness, a surrender to fear. Bravery and courage were no longer emotions he chose. They were the only emotions he let in. He had steeled himself from a young age to not let fear in, and nothing had broken that armor yet.

Breathing. Compressing.

But at this moment Dean Winchester leanred two new emotions: panic and defeat.

Hunting was about control. It was about power. It was about believing he had the ability to change things no matter how difficult the circumstances. He had never relinquished that control before; he not surrendered it in any situation. It was taken from him now. The loss of power and control drained him, stripped him.

Breathing. Compressing.

Control seemed like a vain illusion now. How many years had he walked blindly on the edge, too proud to see how precarious the position was?

His mind pleaded, begged something, anything to change this outcome. This wasn't about winning or losing, it was about surrender. And Dean wasn't about to do it.

Breathing.

Nothing else existed--just Dean and his brother, Dean and Sam, fighting against fate. One, two, three…

He forgot about his father and how angry he'd be that Dean had let this happen. …four, five, six…

He forgot about his mother and how little he really knew about who she was. …seven, eight, nine…

He forgot about Sam's rebellion, his attempts to break away and how much that hurt. …ten, eleven, twelve…

He forgot about his pride, that overwhelming need to be right, to be perfect. …thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…

He even forgot about fate, or whatever it was that had them here. Breathe.

Sam's body jerked and Dean stopped and stared as his brother sucked in a noisy breath.

Dean's eyes were wide, disbelieving. Sam was moving now, struggling for air and flailing.

His instincts kicked in, and he moved to support Sam, holding his brother awkwardly in his arms, lifting him from the ground.

Sam melted in his grasp, his uncoordinated movements stilling as he gasped frantically for much needed oxygen. Dean's own breathing was shaky as he cradled his brother. "You're okay," he mumbled. "You're okay."

He received no response from his brother, whose breaths still came deep and rasping. As awful as they sounded, Dean cherished those breaths, was awed and stunned by them. He'd believed for a moment that he would never hear them again.

Then it all came crashing down on him with blinding reality. Sam choking, falling, not breathing--the things of his worst nightmare, the things so bad that he didn't even know how to dream it. The juxtaposition startled him from his terrified stupor: Sam had been dead mere seconds before and now, by some miracle he could not place, his brother was alive.

Trembling, gasping, cold--but alive.

Dean's mind raced, suddenly aware of all the complications that could arise. "You're okay," he repeated again, trying to reassure himself as much as his brother.

He would never remember getting up or calling 911. He would never remember holding Sam's hand, whispering a meaningless mantra of reassurances as he watched waited for help to come.

He would only remember the clatter of the paramedics' footsteps against the linoleum and the sound of their voices as they asked question after question. He never knew what he said, but he remembered sitting in the ambulance, staring in wonder at each breath his brother drew.

0000000

"What happened?"

Dean cringed. He had been dreading those words. He had spent the last half-hour alone in the waiting room, fathoming possible responses, playing out possible scenarios for this moment. He had known that before his father said anything else, he would demand answers. Dean took a shaky breath and attempted to brace himself. "It was a demon."

"A demon?" John exclaimed, his voice hitching loudly. Glancing around nervously, he quieted and sat down next to his son. His voice was low and serious. "What were you thinking?"

"We didn't mean to get into it with her."

"Then what were you doing?"

Dean had thought of all his reasons, and he knew how pathetic they would sound when said aloud. "Sam thought one of his teachers was possessed."

"And why would he think that?"

"Does it matter? She was."

"So you went after her? Alone?" John was incredulous.

"I didn't think it was true. We were just going to check it about."

John stifled an expletive. "Dean, you know better than this."

Dean couldn't protest, because he knew his father was right. So he sat silent and let his father abase him.

"You took your brother with you to face a demon? Why would you put him at risk like that?"

Dean almost offered an apology, but his voice would not work.

"I trusted you, Dean, to take care of your brother. Every time I think you've grown up you go off and do something stupid like this. Do I have to be around to always hold your hand?"

The apology finally formed on Dean's lips. "I'm sorry." He hated how weak it sounded.

"Sorry?" his father snorted. "Sorry? What happened back there?"

"She--I don't know--took us by surprise. We were about to leave but she was on us. I tried to distract her, and Sammy was reading the exorcism." The events played back in horrific slow motion. "But, then…somehow I was down and she had Sammy--she had Sammy by the throat, and she was--she was choking him. I finished the exorcism." His voice sounded mechanical, lifeless. "I was too late. I did what I could, but--I was too late."

The confession hung and not even John Winchester could jump on the vulnerability expressed.

Dean clenched his jaw tightly, staring straight ahead. "I'm sorry," he said again. The words were forced, desperate.

There was a pause. "Couldn't you have taken him to a different hospital?"

Dean turned in surprise, and finally looked at his father. His father looked disheveled and tired. Dean stared at him with wide eyes. "He wasn't breathing, Dad," he said. "I didn't know what else to do."

The admission caught his father off guard. There was a pause, filled with the awful truth they both knew but didn't want to speak. "He wasn't breathing?"

His throat too tight to speak anymore, Dean just shook his head.

His father didn't--couldn't--acknowledge the severity of it. "It's just-" he began. "It's just-" Accusations seemed easier to deal with. "You know how careful we have to be. The doctors know us here after Sam came here twice last month--once for the concussion and the other for the stitches. The last thing we need is social services coming around."

Dean's disbelief was evident. He would take the blame for many things, but getting Sam treatment wasn't one of them. "Sam was dead," he said with unexpected force. "He was blue and cold and dead." Dean let the image linger, taking hold in both their minds. "I just--I never--I mean--dead."

The tears he had been holding back for hours now, it seemed, flowed down his face. Slowly his head fell into his hands, where he sat in utter despair. He had lost everything--truly lost it--and he didn't know by whose grace he had it back. But for the first time, he saw how thin a string his life dangled by and just how deep the crevice below him was. He shuddered to think how close they all were to being cut off.

He almost flinched when he felt rough hands wrap around him. But he didn't pull away, and slowly realized the embrace that held him. "I'm sorry, Dean," his father said, rubbing slow circles on his back. "I'm sorry."

The touch was so foreign, so unexpected, but so welcome. He accepted it because he needed it, he needed the contact to assure himself that he was not asleep, that he was alive. And he felt that, somehow, his father needed the same assurance. They would never talk about it later, but in that moment, it was enough.

0000000

"Are you here for, uh, Sam Connelly?"

Both Dean and his father scrambled to their feet. "Yes, I'm his father," John said, usurping Dean's position of control.

"Sorry to keep you waiting. Sam should be fine," the doctor said, his smile confident. "He's awake and alert and all his motor functions are intact. He's a lucky kid--the bruising on his neck is quite severe. His throat will be sore and his voice will probably be hoarse for a few days. He needs to take it easy, obviously. He does have a broken rib, but it's not serious. We'll keep him overnight for observation, but I expect we'll release him tomorrow."

The prognosis was so optimistic that Dean hesitated to believe it. How could death overtake them and vanish so quickly, so soundlessly?

"It is a little vague just how long his heart wasn't beating, but we're optimistic there will be no long term consequences. I hear you're the big brother who saved his life."

Dean found himself speechless.

"Hero, too," the doctor said. "Saved that teacher as well."

John glanced at his son. "Dean's strong like that."

"Well, if not for you, your brother might not have been so lucky."

Dean felt paralyzed; the world seemed distant and fuzzy, like the reception on their TV.

"Can we see him?" John asked.

"Yes. We've admitted him. I'll have a nurse take you to his room."

"Thank you, doctor," John said, with an appreciative nod.

Dean watched as the doctor motioned to a nearby nurse. "Nurse Stark will show you to his room."

The nurse was young and pretty and Dean probably would have made a pass at her under normal circumstances. At this moment, though, nothing could have been further from his mind. Instead, he stared mutely as she smiled and led them down the hall. His father followed her anxiously, clearly needing to see his son before he could relax.

They stopped outside a room, and she turned to them, her blonde ponytail swinging. "He's sleeping now. We gave him a light sedative--he seemed a little agitated from the trauma--mostly psychological. We'll have a psychiatrist come speak to him tomorrow. But right now, he needs his rest."

"Thank you," John said.

Dean noted how sincere his father sounded.

The nurse smiled and walked away, until her pink scrubs were lost down the corridor. Dean stared after her, too stupefied to fully understand what he was doing. His father pulled at him arm, and Dean followed him into the room.

The lights were dim and Dean couldn't bring himself to move from behind his father. John, however, strode purposefully to Sam's bed. Then Dean was exposed to the sight of his little brother, whom he hadn't seen since the ambulance had brought them there.

Truthfully, he had expected worse. After seeing Sam so lifeless, the amount of color in Sam's complexion surprised him. Sam's chest clearly rose and fell--Dean watched for it--and though his features were unmoving, they looked peaceful. There were fewer machines than Dean had expected, as well. Sam was receiving oxygen nasally and had one IV stringing from his left hand. Ugly bruises adorned his throat. The markings were the only indication of any trauma whatsoever; otherwise Sam appeared to be merely sleeping.

Dean moved to the other side of the bed wordlessly, standing next to the heart monitor, which suddenly sounded loud. He glanced at it, noting how steadily Sam's heart seemed to be beating. It was a sound Dean would never again take for granted.

Across the bed, John was still standing over his son, taking in his state as well. With a small smile, he placed a fatherly hand on Sam's brow.

The action was so tender. His father had not shown such compassion to Sam since he was a child. Dean half expected his brother to flinch, to pull away. Sam had been doing that a lot lately.

John took a deep breath. "It's going to be okay now," he said softly. He looked up at Dean. "It's going to be okay. We just have to try harder. Be safer."

"I know," Dean whispered back.

Emotion flickered through his fathers eyes--pain, relief, fear, disappointment. At first Dean thought it was directed at him, but his father looked away ashamedly. He cleared his throat loudly, taking another shuddering breath. "We can't let this happen again," he said.

An instant passed and Dean could not take his eyes off his father. He didn't know what he was waiting for--forgiveness or condemnation.

He received neither.

John wiped his nose. "I need to go check on the insurance," he said quickly, leaving the room without looking at his sons.

Dean watched him go and felt himself exhale. After no movement came back to the doorway, he sank into the chair by Sam's bedside. He said nothing, barely moved, perched on the edge of the chair, mesmerized by Sam's steady breathing. Dean didn't know what else to do. He was usually a man of action, but the events of the evening had left him confused, unsure--terrified.

The room was quiet. Beyond the beeps of the heart monitor, Dean distantly discerned the ticking of a wall clock, counting off the seconds.

Sam shifted and slowly opened his eyelids, recognition coming slowly. "Hey, Dean," Sam said, his voice soft and his syllables slurred.

"Hey," Dean said, leaning close to Sam. "How're you doing?"

"Tired," Sam said. "Throat hurts."

"Yeah, it's going to be like that for awhile. Do you remember what happened?"

"Demon?"

Dean grinned. "Yeah, she tried to kill you."

Sam felt his throat lightly. "Strangled?"

"Yeah. Who knew such a small woman could do so much."

Sam's hand fell back to his side. He looked concerned. "Gone?"

"Gone. Back to hell where it belongs."

"Ms. Treadle?"

"She'll be drilling you on American literature again in no time. She's better off than you. Cops think some psycho attacked you both. Luckily, I managed to scare them away."

Sam nodded, letting his eyes close for a long moment. He swallowed, grimacing as he did. "You okay?"

"Me? I'm not the one who was strangled by my English teacher," he joked lightly. His smile fell as he relived it. "It was close, though, Sammy."

There was a pause. "They said I died."

Dean looked away, afraid of the tears that might come. "Yeah, well, you did quite a Lazarus impression back there . . ."

"Couldn't have done it without you."

"Yeah, well, we're quite a team." Dean paused, looking at his hands. "Don't try it again, though. Okay?"

Sam nodded lightly, his eyes blinking sluggishly.

"Look, you get some sleep. You shouldn't even be awake as it is. The nurse will chase me out if she thinks I'm keeping you up."

Sam mumbled, his eyes closing.

"What's that, Sammy?"

Sam settled, turning his head back toward Dean without opening his eyes. His voice was barely a whisper, and his words were jumbled. But to Dean, they were crystal clear. "I love you."

Normally he would have groaned, made a quick joke, but Sam vulnerability took him off guard. After all, the Sam he had known recently was withdrawn and argumentative, less and less part of the family business - or even part of the family at all, it seemed at times.

Seeing Sam slip into sleep, Dean reached a hand out and smoothed his brother's hair. He missed Sammy, the little brother who told him everything and strove to emulate his every move. As much as he ran from emotions and mocked his brother's, this was a role he was comfortable with, that he needed--to be the protector.

It would be easy to believe he had saved Sam, that his determination and ability had kept Sam from the brink yet again. That was certainly what his father and Sam expected, and it would be the front he put up. But the doubt and fear could not be so easily extinguished. They festered within him, threatening to break down all the walls he had erected and foundation he had spent a lifetime solidifying.

Obedience and protection--the two things that gave structure to his chaotic world.

Dad and Sam--the two people who gave meaning to his void-filled life.

It had never occurred to him that these things may not coexist peaceably, that these pursuits may stand in opposition to one another.

Dean didn't know how to disobey. His unfaltering obedience had started the night his father thrust Sam into his arms and told him to run and not look back. His entire existence could be summed up that way: following orders, protecting Sam, no looking back. Never looking back.

Not even when his baby brother was lying cold and dead on generic linoleum tile. Not even when he had to revive the only thing that made his own life worth living.

Dean tried to figure out how the pursuit could justify this. How could he rationalize the risks, the costs. It was a question he'd never asked himself before. He'd always just believed--believed that following orders could save them, that it would be worth it in the end.

But the places it took them . . . Would he trade in his brother's life in name of the pursuit? How much would he give before he walked away? How many orders could he follow blindly into despair until he finally opened his eyes?

The Winchester family existed on the brink of destruction. They all walked a fine line, balancing somewhere between danger and death. He hadn't realized just how close they came to crossing it. It only took a fraction, a moment, an imperceptible imbalance, to send them hurtling over it, into the abyss that awaited them on the other side.

After so many years of fighting the supernatural entities, Dean almost believed he was like them. He had defeated so many evils, he had survived so many close calls, he had begun to believe in his own invincibility.

Leave it to Sam to teach him a hard lesson in mortality.

He let his hand linger in Sam's hair, needing the touch to assure him that Sam was real. The steady rhythm of his brother's heard was a sweet lullaby, and he let himself be soothed by it.

He had to fight--harder. He could never let up, never relax, never put his guard down. He had to use every mortal measure he could to ensure the survival of those around him. His own mortality meant very little; Sam's meant everything.

He would be the one people could count on. He'd be strong when no one else could. He'd be the soldier for his father, the protector for his brother. He'd be the link in the chain that made them stay together. Because everything out there was playing for keeps, and Dean finally realized just how much he had to lose and how close he came every day to losing it.

He may lose it, but he would never surrender it.

Time slipped away from him, and he did not move from his spot by Sam's bedside. The night had thickened and morning approached. The bustle of the hospital had slowed.

Some time later, John rejoined him by Sam's beside, observing his youngest son with distance. "How's he doing?"

Dean's gaze did not stray from his brother's sleeping form. "He's doing fine."

John merely nodded, silent security enveloping them all. He let his hand rest on Dean's shoulder.

Dean did not acknowledge its presence but did not push it away. Then he reached out his own hand and gently gathered his brother's hand into his own.

The sunlight was rising steadily, filling the room with fresh daylight. Life in the hospital buzzed out in the hallway, but the Winchester men stayed where they were, quiet, connected, and alive.