hey guys! Thanks for the reviews! Good news for you 'young Winchester' fans-we've got a flashback in this chapter! Hope you guys enjoy!

Chapter Four: Hurt

St. Mary's General Hospital, Chicago IL

10:00 pm.

Dean gave great credit to both himself and his baby when they made it to the emergency room in ten minutes flat. When they pulled up in front of the ER doors, Sam burst out of the car and ran into the hospital to get help. A doctor, three paramedics, and a gurney had hurried out to the car, where Dean had unbound the man in the back. The injured man was rushed inside immediately. Dean had taken the car around to park it and Sam had followed the frantic parade.

The brothers didn't have to wait long before they were talking to a police officer. The thing about emergency rooms is that you can always count on two or more police officers hanging around. So, while the injured man was rushed into the crisis room, the brothers stood in the hall while two cops questioned them. One was a white man with dusty blonde hair in his mid thirties and the other was a younger Latino man, who was undoubtedly a rookie.

As Dean had hoped, the police were far more interested in the injury to the man's neck and the man that had attacked Dean. Since they'd driven the man to the hospital, the brothers had earned enough credit for the cops not to press them too hard about the accident. They did ask for a description of the man who'd beaten on Dean, which the brother provided-minus the fangs, speed, and talent for making animal-like noises.

"So once he started attackingyour brother, what did you do?" the older cop, Officer Clark, asked Sam.

Sam hesitated. What was he supposed to say? He'd shot the guy with rock salt? "Uh…"

But Dean never missed a beat. "He didn't do anything."

Officer Clark turned his attention to Dean, eyebrow raised. "Your own brother didn't help you out?"

"Didn't have time to," Dean replied as he clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder. "I gave the guy a run for his money and he couldn't pay up. High-tailed it outta there."

The officer's eyes ran over the bruise on Dean's jaw, his cut chin, the swelled bottom lip, and the dried blood around his nose. "Uh huh. So he just ran off?" The brothers nodded. "Right," the officer said, "Well, I have to tell you, if anyone was to hit the man, he's damn lucky it was you. Only has a minor concussion, a broken arm, and a few broken ribs…"

"Is he in a coma?" Dean asked suddenly.

The officer's brow furrowed. "No…"

Dean turned to Sam with a smug look. "You owe me five bucks," he stated matter-of-factly as he held out his palm expectantly.

Sam shot him a 'shut up' glare. Oh yeah, this was really going to improve their image with the cops.

Officer Clark raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. He continued, "His most serious injury was the one to his neck, which you say happened before you hit him, right?"

Dean nodded, letting the bet go-for the time being. The officer seemed satisfied. Sam didn't show it, but he was rather surprised how easily they were getting off. In the past, the police had only been slightly friendlier than the demons, if that. He speculated that this, along with the keen interest in the man that had beat up Dean, meant that there had been similar attacks going on recently.

"Well, boys, you did a good job, bringing him here and taking care of him like that. Get some rest." Officer Clark gave a meaningful look to Dean. "Looks like you could use it."

The Winchesters offered farewells as the officer and the rookie parted.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Sam turned on Dean. " 'A run for his money'? 'He couldn't pay up'?" he quoted incredulously, "Have you looked in a mirror lately?"

Dean's brow furrowed. "How bad could it be?"

Just then, the crisis room doors opened and two nurses in lilac scrubs moved a gurney with the injured man on it. He had a blood transfusion hooked up to him, but his color was still a sickly pale. The brothers watched silently as he passed.

The doctor, a tall black woman in her early forties, clad in the white coat and stethoscope, followed as she took off the bloodstained latex gloves and tossed them into a wastebasket with an orange Biohazard sticker on it. Her name was Dr. Leslie Bridge. Her hair was pulled back rather severely for her kind face. When she looked up and saw the two, she smiled pleasantly.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Bridge," she said, "You must be…" But then she got a better look at Dean and her calm demeanor faltered. "Um…I think I should take a look at that," she said concernedly, referring to the cut on his chin.

As she led them into an exam room, Dean said out of the corner of his mouth, "That bad, huh?"

"'Fraid so," Sam replied.

Dean sat on a chair in absolute agony.

'Just a little sting'. Yeah, right. Damn it, it was just a little cut. He did not need stitches. It hadn't even hurt until she'd put the cleaner on it. But compared to the Novocain shot, that had been sunshine and lollipops.

"…so it looks to me like that other man stabbed him with an ice pick," Dr. Bridge was saying.

With two puncture marks found on the victim's neck, Sam therefore had been forced to finally give in and agree with Dean. They were hunting a vampire.

"I have to tell you, the way you took care of him was impressive. Did a fine job for a couple of amateur paramedics."

Dean would've thanked her, if he could talk. But if he did, his lip might've ended up sewn to his chin. Ouch. It was a rather odd feeling, having your skin sewn together. But Dean was used to it. He had plenty of battle scars and was glad that for once he didn't have to make up a story, because he'd almost run out of them. That was one of the reasons he wasn't very fond of hospitals; too many memories of coming in with painful injuries. With a glance over at his brother, Dean could tell that Sam was having the same uncomfortable feeling.

Sam was leaning against the wall, hands folded over his chest, his gaze distant. Well, well, wasn't this a familiar little scene: in a hospital watching his brother get fixed up. Sometimes it was the other way around, sometimes it was both of them, and sometimes it was just John. Nights that should have been spent doing homework or going to the movies, or doing anything else normal, were spent instead at the hospital. Stitches and casts were almost natural attachments by the time Sam was seven. Sam blamed his father for all of that. What kind of bastard drags his kids into fights like that?

Sam shook his head. There was no point in thinking like that. John wasn't here to yell at anyway, and even if he was, Sam wondered if he even would. All of that was in the past. He hated that it had happened, but it had, and there wasn't really anything he could do about it.

Looking back, Sam was rather shocked that he and his brother went so long without a talk with social services. He remembered the very first time it had happened. He had been seven and had been attacked by some night-crawler type monster whose name he couldn't even pronounce. His back had been burned; his Teenage-Mutant-Ninja-Turtles pj's had almost fused with his skin. The pain had been excruciating, no matter how much the kind nurses had tried to sooth him. Now that he thought about it, he could pinpoint which nurse it had been who'd sounded the subtle alarm. She had been rather young and nice, but very cold to their father.

The nurse somehow managed to distract Dad, probably telling him he needed to sign some form over at the desk or something like that, and Sam remembered being in the room with Dean all by themselves.

Sam was sitting on the bed, bandages wrapped around his bare torso, wearing these funny hospital pants and weird slippers. He was watching Dean, who was trying to figure out a Rubik's cube with little success; Dean had never been very good with puzzles. Sam was about to ask if he could try when the door opened and both of the boys looked up, expecting to see their father.

But instead, it was the nice nurse and another lady. The lady had olive skin and black curly hair. She was wearing a brown skirt and a red shirt. There was some ID card on a lanyard around her neck. Sam thought she looked nice, but there was something about her that he instinctively did not like.

She smiled at him and it was a nice smile, but there was something about it that made him feel sick.

"Hi," she said kindly.

"Hi," Sam had replied.

Dean hadn't said anything. He was looking at the lady too, apparently having the same bad feelings that Sam was.

She walked into the room a little more. "I'm Teresa."

"I'm Sam," he'd responded automatically.

Teresa turned her attention over to Dean. "Hi. Are you Dean?" The older boy replied with a silent nod. Teresa's smile faltered ever so slightly, but she recovered and turned back to Sam. "That looks like it hurt," she said sympathetically.

Sam looked down at the weird, soft slippers. "Not that much," he said, putting on the brave front.

"How'd it happen?" she asked casually.

But Dean caught on quickly. Young as he was, he wasn't stupid. "Where's our dad?" he demanded.

Teresa gave him a tight smile. "He's signing some papers, honey."

"Can we go to him?" Sam asked, following his older brother's lead.

Teresa kept trying to smile, but she wasn't doing a very good job. "Not yet, Sam. I want to talk to you first."

"About what?" Sam asked cautiously. He didn't like this. He wanted to leave.

"About how you got hurt," Teresa explained.

"He got too close to the stove," Dean cut in. The boys had been told to never ever tell anyone how they really got hurt. Back then, their father's word had been law. Then again, for Dean, it still was.

Teresa looked to Sam, who was looking away. Sam knew he was going to have to lie, but he didn't want to. Not entirely because he liked Teresa, but also because he wasn't very good at it. Dean had gotten lying down first and better.

"Sam, is that true?" Sam only nodded, not looking at her. Teresa frowned, putting a firm hand on his shoulder. Sam at that moment became a little conflicted. Growing up without a mom in a house of macho guys, he wasn't very used to comforting touch. "Sam, you have to tell me the truth, honey," Teresa pressed kindly, "Please, honey, tell me the truth. Tell me who really hurt you."

"No one hurt him," Dean said firmly, "It was the stove."

Sam didn't reply. He didn't know what to do, and the frustration and conflict was making him want to cry.

Fortunately, he was saved any more interrogation when the door opened abruptly, John Winchester standing in the doorway, his face both furious and terrified.

"Who the hell are you?" he'd demanded. He hadn't yelled. His voice was actually quite calm; expectant.

The woman had turned to face him, folding her arms across her chest.

"I am Teresa Lancione with Child Protective Services," she replied. Her tone was no longer soft and understanding, but confrontational.

"Child Protective Services?" John repeated the name as though he didn't quite understand. He looked at Sam and Dean, then back to Teresa Lancione. His voice became surprisingly pleading; a tone that Sam and Dean had never heard their father speak in before. "Could we speak outside, please?"

After that, Dad and Teresa Lancione had gone out into the hall, closing the door behind them. Though Dean and Sam had pressed their ears to the crack under the door to listen, John had wisely led Teresa Lancione out of earshot.

Somehow, the boys did go home with their father that night. The next day, the first aid training had started. They couldn't keep going to the hospital; Child Protective Services had started a record.

At that moment, Sam realized that Dr. Bridge had been speaking. He pulled himself out of the shit-hole of old memories and tried to focus on the problems he and Dean were facing now.