Here's the first of two flashback chapters. Thank you all for sticking with me so far!

A reminder: I plotted this story out before the new episodes that started in January. I almost didn't post this entire story because of that. Anyway, just keep in mind there's no Meg or anything of the sort. In fact, most if not all of the events in the episodes following Asylum never happened - especially the ones in Shadows.

Their dad called them on a Wednesday, just after Sam and Dean had staked an entire nest of vampires outside of Phoenix. They had just gotten back to the hotel and were still covered in dust when Dean's cell phone rang.

Even before Dean looked at the caller ID, they both knew it was important. It was nearly four in the morning and they knew no one who would call unless it was urgent. Sam had a brief flash of hope that it was their father, but he didn't actually expect to hear Dean gasp "Dad?"

Three minutes later, Dean hung up and announced they had to leave. "Right now," he said. Sam knew at once that this was it, this was the moment they'd been waiting for. He immediately got up and started packing, letting Dean explain as they stuffed clothes and weapons into their bags.

Their dad needed them. Sam didn't think he would ever hear those words either. But he had told Dean he needed their help as soon as possible, and he gave him coordinates for somewhere in central California. It was only a twelve-hour drive – close-by when the entire country was your home.

John had cornered the demon. He had finally found the monster responsible for the deaths of Mary and Jessica. And he needed their help to defeat it.

"We're finally going to kill this thing," Dean said, quoting their father.

Sam could feel it in his bones, could taste it in his mouth. The need for justice or revenge or blood – he would finally get that satisfaction. He could finally rid himself of those thoughts, those black desires that had always lurked just under his chest since the moment Jessica died.

The weariness he felt just after their latest hunt disappeared instantly, and he stood by the door, tapping his foot while he waited for his brother.

But Dean stalled. Like always, he followed their father's orders - but he wanted to shower first, and he refused to leave before both he and Sam were clean. Sam relented before they could waste more time arguing than it would take to shower. When it was his turn, he impatiently jumped under the spray of water and waited only until the vampire dust had been rinsed off before he got back out.

Fortunately, Dean had already packed the car and was ready to go; otherwise Sam might have accidentally killed him with his impatience.

Dean did feel the urgency as well, even if it wasn't to the same extent as Sam and their father felt. He broke his own speed record along a desert highway, and they cut several hours from their driving time. They didn't speak more than a few words the whole time. Or, if they did, Sam didn't remember it.

They met their dad mid-afternoon. When they walked up the his hotel door, Dean froze for a moment and Sam thought he wasn't going to knock for some strange reason. But then his hand came up and gave the door three simple raps.

It was the first time Sam had seen his father since he had left for Stanford. It was a simple reunion, with a few tears and quick but firm hug. They mentioned neither their last fight, nor John's prolonged, mysterious absence.

They had something more important on their mind.

Since the demon was a night creature, they spent the next few hours researching - but it was more out of routine than anything. Spread out in John's hotel room, they glanced through library materials, John's notes, rumors and legends online. But the moment the sun set, they quit at once, slamming their books shut and exchanging them for supplies and swords.

By then, they knew how to kill it. That was all they needed.

The demon had taken hold of a two-story home just outside of town. John had the family safely evacuated the night before, so the house was clear for them to use. It was a regular place, like their home had been in Kansas. Sam was grateful John had arrived just in time to get the Johnsons to safety before the demon could attack.

Their plan was fairly straightforward. First they would trap the demon within the house, preventing it from escaping. Then they needed to confine it to its human form, rendering it mortal.

At that point, it could be killed with first a slash across its middle – the same mark it left on its victims – and then a stab straight through its heart.

Sam and John were bloodthirsty and impatient, and they wasted no time entering the house, the setting for this final battle. The demon had taken from them the women they loved more than anything else, and they still felt that pain. They needed this battle, they needed this kill. They'd been waiting for this for too long.

So they had Dean do the spell casting, even though out of the three, he had the least experience. Dean never protested. He lived with them for too long, he knew as much as they did how deeply they needed this.

They set him up in the basement on the cold, concrete floor. John poured a circle of salt around him, and Sam gave him the Latin words he had copied onto notebook paper. Then John lit the candle sitting to his left, and Sam the one on his right. Dean sat cross-legged in the middle, studying the spell because his father told him to.

First he would reinforce the temporary binding spell John had placed the night before. Then, once he was sure the demon was trapped within the walls of the house, Dean would move onto the next spell, the one that made it mortal. As soon as the demon took on its human form, John and Sam would be ready to attack.

The demon had been on the second floor when John placed the binding spell the night before, and that's where they expected it to remain. Sam and John were determined to be present the moment it became mortal. Even as a human it was powerful, and they knew surprising it would be best. Besides, they weren't sure how long Dean could force it into its human shape.

So they left Dean there in the basement. He was safe; the salt circle would protect him from the demon and a sword from its human version. The demon was two floors away in any case, and it was accepted that Sam and John had the more dangerous job.

When the oldest and youngest Winchester gripped their medieval swords and left the basement and Dean behind, they were eager to kill this bastard once and for all. They were anxious but confident. Ready. They knew its weak spot.

But what they didn't know was that the demon drew its power from fire. They didn't know that even the flames from the two small ritual candles were bright enough to attract it. They didn't know that those lit candles would give it enough strength to pass through a simple salt barrier.

Sam and his father roamed the entire second floor, searching it room by room with their swords poised and ready. They paced the hallway, throwing open doors and checking each room as they passed. The whole time, they kept each other in sight. Watched each other's back.

But fifteen minutes passed, and they knew the spell should have been completed. The demon should have been human by then, should have been plainly visible.

They went to the first floor next as their concern started to mount When they didn't see it after one sweep through, their heartbeats started to rise. They exchanged alarmed glances and raced through the twisting rooms.

But the demon wasn't there.

Instantly they were running for the basement door. Sam was younger, quicker, and he got there first. He raced down the stairs, nearly tripping. He distantly heard his father thundering behind him.

His eyes went immediately to the makeshift spell circle, where Dean should have been sitting. To his horror, the candles had been knocked over, although somehow their flames were still flickering. The circle of salt was now a burnt ring scorched into the concrete.

And Dean was gone.

Sam crept forward in horror, his heart hammering in his ears. He stepped over the burnt salt, going into the area where Dean was supposed to perform the ritual. A flash of white caught his eye, and he looked down at the notebook paper that lay still on the ground by his feet.

And then a spot of blood appeared on the top of his shoe.

Another followed, dripping right beside it. Two drops of red on his gray sneaker.

In horrified unison, Sam and John lifted their gazes, tilting their heads back. Sam heard his father cry out, but his own throat closed up completely. He thought he might be sick, if he didn't choke to death.

Dean was spread out above them, pinned flat againstthe ceiling. A bloody gash had been torn across his abdomen.

The horrible image of Jessica flashed through Sam's mind, just as he knew his father had a flashback of Mary. But this time it was Dean who hung over them, his eyes wide open with pain and horror. He was already pale, the color of death.

But he was still alive, Sam realized incredibly. His lips were moving, although Sam couldn't hear what he was saying. It gave him a fragile, frightening sense of almost-hope as he stared up at his brother in stunned horror.

Sam stretched his arms up, but his hands only came within a foot of him. Tears blurred his eyes as he struggled to reach.

Then Dean stopped talking, his lips suddenly stilling. And then the air rushed by Sam, seemed to surge past him. Energy, he realized distantly, dropping his gaze.

And then suddenly a dark form loomed before him. Even though it looked normal, like someone he could have passed on the street, Sam knew immediately it was the demon. He knew this was the thing they had devoted their entire lives to finding.

Dean had finished the spell.

Sam instantly came alive, his blood racing. With a scream, he lurched forward, swinging the sword he still held in his hands. He brought it behind him and then lashed out in a wide, powerful arc.

The tip of the sword slashed across the figure's middle, slicing through flesh. The demon stumbled backwards from the force of his blow as blood welled from his stomach.

Sam stepped back automatically as John rushed forward, almost as if they had practiced it. He watched as his father ran his sword through the demon's chest and then yanked it back out.

The demon let out an inhuman shriek before it toppled down to the ground. They examined it just long enough to make sure its body lay limp, unmoving before them.

They had killed it.

The demon that killed his mother, that took Jessica from him, was gone. They finally ended it. They finally got their revenge.

But Sam wasn't thinking about that.

He looked up with a jerk, just in time to see Dean suddenly fall from the ceiling as he was released from whatever power that held him. Crying out, Sam tossed his sword aside and leapt forward. He got there in time to break his fall, and the force of Dean's body knocked him down to the concrete floor.

Sam lay there on his back, stunned, trying to catch his breath as Dean lay on top of him. The weight of his brother pressed heavily against Sam's chest, and his head hung limply over his shoulder.

Gasping, Sam struggled to pull his trapped arms from underneath him, finally yanking them out with a gentle jerk. Once they were free, he lifted them up into the air and carefully lowered them onto Dean's back. Then he wrapped them firmly around his brother's body, his hands grasping each side of Dean's ribage.

He hugged his brother tightly to him, ignoring the tears that leaked from his eyes and rolled off the side of his face.

"Dean," he whispered. "Dean."

Somewhere beside him, their father was frantic, speaking in a broken string of words. "Oh, God, Dean. Oh, God, no. My boy. I'm sorry, Dean, I'm so sorry," he was saying. And then strangely he started barking orders—into his phone, Sam dimly realized; he was calling for help.

Sam hung onto Dean desperately, trying to keep him anchored to him. Forcing him to know that Sam was there.

But Dean didn't move, didn't acknowledge him in the slightest. The weight on his chest never moved. Sam's arms were cold, and the warmth of Dean's body were his only comfort. As long as Dean stayed warm, he would be fine. Sam started rubbing his back, desperately keeping that warmth inside him.

And then John's arms were carefully wrapping themselves around Dean, just under Sam's grip. "C'mon, Sam," he said softly, his voice deep and shaky. "We have to go."

"What?" Sam fumbled. "But—help—"

"We can't stay here," John told him. "We gotta go. They'll meet us at the curb." As he spoke, he tugged gently at the weight holding Sam down.

Sam held on tighter. "No, Dad, wait. Don't--" he said frantically, shaking his head.

"Listen to me, Sam!" his father snapped before lowering his voice. "We'll meet them outside. It'll be quicker." Sam barely heard him, and his head refused to stop shaking. "Sam!"

Then Sam let go. He dragged in a hitching breath, an almost sob, as his arms dropped to the sides.

Dean was lifted from him, but Sam's eyes were closed and he didn't watch. Once the weight was off of him, Sam rolled over and pushed himself up.

"Get the swords," John ordered, and Sam obeyed robotically. He picked them up from the ground, barely noticing the blades slick with blood and ignoring the body on the ground. He held one in each hand and followed behind his father as he carried Dean up the stairs in his arms.

Moving on autopilot, he held the door open as John took Dean outside. Then he threw the swords into the trunk of the Impala while John carefully lay Dean on the grass next to the road. Sam dropped to his knees beside him. His father's hands were pressed against Dean's wound, but Sam couldn't tell if it did any good. Everything was so bloody.

While they waited, he tried to ignore the deathly pallor of Dean's face. He focused instead on the rise and fall of his chest, the only thing that assured him his brother was still alive.

At one point, Dean's eyes drifted open, rolling around as he searched for a face. They landed on Sam. "'Ey," he greeted, his voice hoarse. "Did you get 'im?"

Beside him, John let out a harsh noise that sounded almost like a sob. "Yeah, son. We got him."

Sam thought he saw the corner of his mouth twist into a smile. "Hell, yeah," he said before his eyes slipped close again.

Sam didn't know how long it took the ambulance to arrive. He never heard what lie his father told them. He climbed numbly behind the wheel of Dean's car so he could follow his father's truck to the hospital.

The hospital should have been closer, he thought with each turn they took. It was too far away.

Sometime later he found himself in the waiting room with his father. They sat side by side in the plastic chairs, neither of them speaking as the doctors were off somewhere working on Dean. Sam stared at the doors where he expected news to eventually come from. His dad was a pale and silent form beside him, his gaze never leaving the tiled floor. Both of them were covered in blood.

Sam could not stop the flood of thoughts that pounded him. He didn't even try.

They should have waited. God dammit, they should have waited, and they should have put more effort in studying the demon. But they were too impatient, too high on finally putting an end to the shadow that had haunted their entire lives. They went in recklessly and dangerously unprepared. And Dean was the one who suffered for their mistakes.

They got what they wanted, but it wasn't worth it.

ooOOoo

Some time later—Sam hadn't been keeping track how long—the doctor came up to them. He told them that Dean had finally been stabilized. That if he lived through the next 24 hours, his chances were good.

Sam let out the breath he didn't know he was holding.

He lost that breath again when they were allowed in to see him. Dean was dead, Sam was sure of it. Only his heart monitor told him otherwise.

As soon as they were alone, John started cursing, coming alive for the first time since they arrived at the hospital. He raged around the room, spitting out four-letter words, his voice low but violent. Sam stood stiffly beside Dean's bed as he let his father finally release the emotions that had been boiling inside him.

"God dammit, Sam," John hissed under his breath, slapping his hand around the railing of the bed. "I messed up. God dammit, I messed up."

Sam nodded, watching Dean's face for any sign of movement. "We both did," he said roughly.

"Stop it, Sam. This was my responsibility," his father told him firmly, passionately. "This was my fault. I almost got my own son killed."

Tears started to prick Sam's eyes, but they never fell. A tense quiet settled over them, and each beep of Dean's monitors sent a subtle jolt through Sam's chest.

"I can't take this," John suddenly muttered, sounding angry. "I can't stand this right now."

Sam looked up with growing alarm. He didn't like the tone in his voice. "Dad?"

John straightened suddenly and turned to him. "Sam. You got to get him out of here."

Sam took a step backwards, gasping out loud. The abrupt turn in the conversation threw him off guard. "What do you mean?" he cried, his eyes growing wide.

"We all have to get out of here," his father told him. "We left a body behind with a matching injury. It's only a matter of time before they link us to it."

"But, Dad—Look at him!" He waved an arm at Dean.

John refused, stubbornly keeping his eyes trained on Sam's face. "Sam, listen. He'll be fine." Sam glared at him, wide-eyed, his teeth grinding together.

"You'll take care of him," John added.

Speechless, Sam struggled to form words. "What do you mean—Why can't--" he immediately protested, feeling everything spin out of control. "Why me?" he demanded. "Where are you going?"

"I—I need some time. I need to get my thoughts together."

"But what about me? What about Dean!" Sam shouted at him.

His father was sad. "You guys always needed each other more than you needed me."

"That's not true, Dad," Sam shot back instantly, even though it was. But he didn't want his father to leave him. Not again, not like this. He and Dean had been searching too long for him. "We still need you," he added truthfully. John looked away, uncompromising.

Dean would be crushed.

"You can't leave," Sam said, his voice suddenly hard. "Dad, listen to me. You can't do this to us."

"Sam, everything's going to be okay. We'll see each other again."

"Dad, no, why can't you stay now?"

"I just can't, Sammy," he replied, his voice suddenly trembling. "I need some time…to reflect."

"The hell, Dad!" Sam exclaimed, barely able to see his father through the water in his eyes. He was shaking, he realized, and he had to grip the bed rail to steady himself. "Don't leave me, Dad. Don't leave Dean."

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"What kind of father are you!" Sam spat out, hoping his words hurt, hoping they stung deep.

"I know, Sam…" he whispered in defeat. "But I can't protect you two anymore. I failed. And I'm afraid…" his voice caught, and he trailed off for a long moment. Sam stood there trembling as he waited for his father to explain. "It's too dangerous to be around me. I've made too many enemies, and--I've already put you through too much. For all of your life, I've been placing you two in danger."

Sam shook his head in disbelief, not disagreeing, but too angry at his father to do anything else.

"Get him out of here, Sam. Get him somewhere safe."

Sam blinked furiously and looked down, refusing to acknowledge his father's words.

"You boys need to move on," John told him sadly. "It's over now."

Sam gripped the metal railing tight in his hands, his locked arms trembling from the force. His eyes were so filled with tears he didn't see his father as he walked out of the hospital room, leaving the two brothers behind.

to be continued...

Gah, I know. As a fanfic writer, I tend to make things way more angsty than they would be on the show. I'm a glutton for that kind of stuff. And it just occurred to me how much of a whumping Dean's taking in this fic. Oh, yeesh...Hope you all can forgive me!