The ancient cemetery was nearly pitch black, the heavy clouds obscuring the faint glow of the quarter moon that might have given them even the tiniest bit of ambient light as Sam shoveled dirt back into the freshly dug up grave. His eyes were hurting from having to squint since the two antiquated camping lights were not doing a great job of illuminating the area.

Sam's outer shirt was tied around his waist, his T-shirt clinging to him like a second skin in the humid North Carolina air, rivulets of sweat cascading down his back, chest and arms between the heat and the manual labor. He paid no attention to the blisters that were slowly forming on his hands as he dumped shovelful after shovelful of damp mossy earth into the hole, the casket and bones still radiating heat like a furnace from the salt and burn.

The air was dense but silent, the cemetery far from any road or house. It's like that with these tiny older bone yards and it makes their job a little easier when they don't have to worry about prying eyes or ears as they get the job done. Aside from the occasional cicada, the only sounds were Sam's labors and the odd grunt or hiss from the trunk of the car where Dad had popped Dean's shoulder back in place and was now taping his bruised ribs.

Sam doesn't have to look at his father to know the man is wearing the disapproving frown that his face sports when he is displeased with the behavior of one of his wayward sons. Dean broke protocol by throwing himself in the line of fire of the pissed off ghost of Maynard Briggs while Dad took care of the remains. Maynard had hurled Dean into one of the crumbling headstones and Sam could still hear the sickening crack of his brother's flung body crashing through the smooth rock ringing in his mind.

It's not the first time Dean has been thrown against a gravestone, and Sam sadly ponders the fact that it probably won't be the last time either.

Sam himself met the sharp, pointy side of a tree when he attempted to distract the spirit away from his unconscious brother, but there had been no time for real retaliation from Maynard. A split second later Sam had seen his father's face light up in the darkness with the scorching red glow of fire from the grave and Maynard's sizzling ghostly wisp along with it.

All he wanted to do now was fill the hole back in and head back to the motel for a hot shower and a few hours sleep on the lumpy cheap mattress. From the back of the car he heard the sounds of frustrated debate as Dean attempted to dodge the painkillers that Dad was insisting on dispensing to him. Dean didn't care for them, Sam knew. They made his brother too groggy and he always woke up disoriented and crabby and with a hangover worthy headache without the preceding fun. It was a wasted effort, Sam thought as he continued to shovel.

Dad was going to win anyway, like he always did, so it was no use trying to fight him.

Sure enough, not a minute later, the passenger door of the Impala was pulled open and Dean was being forced to sit, probably before he fell down. Dad was striding back towards Sam, his own face slick with sweat and streaks of dirt, shoulders broad and intimidating in the glow of the camping lamp he carried with him. He reached out and pulled the shovel from Sam's hands, handing him the lamp.

"Go sit with your brother. I'll finish this."

Sam wanted to check on his brother, but the stubborn streak in him took umbrage at being told to do it.

"I'm almost done, Dad," he protested, attempting to grab the shovel back. "Just let me finish and we can go."

"Sam," Dad growled, holding the shovel firmly with one hand and pinching the bridge of his nose with the other, "just go sit with your brother!"

Sam huffed, but did as he was told. It didn't take a genius to see that his father was in no mood to be messed with right now. He stomped back over toward his brother, his shoulders taut with irritation, and flopped on the ground in front of where Dean was sitting with his legs out of the car. His brother's face was pale underneath the tan freckles and his eyes were closed, but Sam could see the pain Dean was unsuccessfully trying to suppress.

"You okay?" he asked, genuinely concerned because his brother really did look like shit.

"'M'fine, Sammy," Dean groaned quietly, carefully leaning to rest his head against the door frame. "Damn head is gonna be spinning now from those freakin' pills Dad made me take."

"What were you thinking, Dean?" Sam demanded, a little pissed at seeing his brother banged and bruised. "We were only supposed to shoot at him, not let him chase us!"

"I was thinking that I didn't want him going after you, moron," Dean barked back, instantly regretting it when his ribs screamed at him for moving so quickly. "You didn't shoot, Sam."

Sam bit back another retort because he realized that his brother was right. Sam hadn't been ready to fire when Maynard appeared next to him. He hadn't been prepared like he was taught, and now his brother was paying the price for his mistake.

He averted his gaze away from his brother, ashamed of his inaction and even more for his rebuke. He glanced towards the grave, not surprised to see that Dad was already just about finished up. The man was a machine, never seeming to tire, no matter how much physical exertion he did.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam muttered, unable to look his brother in the face.

Dean sighed and shifted a little more, trying to find a comfortable position. Between his ribs and his shoulder it was a difficult task right now.

"I know," he said tiredly. "I'm sorry Dad is going to have my ass when we get back for breaking protocol too," he sighed, rubbing his eyes.

If possible, Sam felt even worse than he had a second ago because he knew it was true. Dean had disobeyed a direct order and their father did not look kindly at things like that. Shit was going to hit the fan when they got back to the motel, once Dad had reassured himself that his boys were physically okay. Failures to follow orders were treated harshly in their world.

Sam heard his father's heavy boot steps coming up behind him quickly and knew that it was time to go. He hefted himself up from the damp ground and held out a steadying hand as Dean pulled himself up from the passenger seat.

"Let's go, boys," Dad ordered. "Dean, give your brother the keys. You're in no shape to drive."

Dean immediately began to protest but was shut down quickly by his father. Without preamble, John grabbed Dean by a belt loop, holding him firm as he dug the car keys out of his son's front pocket.

"That wasn't a request, Son," he barked, throwing the keys in Sam's direction.

Dean stared daggers at his father for the few seconds that he dared to. John glared back, wordlessly quenching the fire of his eldest's brief rebellion until Dean relaxed his stance and allowed his dad to help ease him back into the passenger seat while Sam, a bit too eagerly for Dean's taste, hopped behind the wheel and brought the car's engine roaring to life.

After John got Dean situated as well as possible to protect his shoulder and ribs, he leaned over towards Sam, lightly pressing a restraining hand on the steering wheel.

"Respect the vehicle, Sammy," he ordered, displeased with the unnecessary enthusiasm with which Sam gunned the engine. "And follow me closely. No stunt driving."

Sam huffed and resisted the urge to roll his eyes which would only get him in trouble. Dad would forever treat him like a child, he thought angrily as he slumped a little in the seat. It wasn't Sam's fault that Dean never let him drive the car. His brother had been driving the Impala since he was eleven and could barely reach the pedals, and ever since then Dean had treated the car like it was already his own.

Sam was thirteen before John had started teaching him because his growth was slower than Dean's had been. Now, at seventeen, he had legally had a license for almost a year, but his jerk brother refused to let him drive, so sue Sam if he wanted to enjoy the brief moments when he was allowed behind the wheel.

"Sam," his father growled, expecting verbal confirmation that his orders would be obeyed.

"Yes, sir," Sam replied, clenching his teeth together to prevent himself from starting a fight unnecessarily.

It was getting harder and harder to keep his temper in check lately, the few weeks respite from daily contact with their father while Sam had finished school beginning to wear off.

Dean had already had their motel room in Oklahoma packed up and their belongings in the car when he picked Sam up from his last day at school. Orders were orders, and since Dad had been accommodating enough to allow them to stay on longer than originally planned, Dean was going to make sure that his father's instructions were followed.

It had been a seventeen hour drive from the Hi-View to meet up with Dad outside of Charlotte, NC. Dean, usually happy to indulge in lazy back roads driving and leisurely enjoy his time at the wheel of his baby, had uncharacteristically raced on highways to rejoin John in the field, stopping only for a few brief power naps. Sam had been more than annoyed that Dean had chosen to rely on a few brief power naps instead of letting his little brother drive but, after the first rejection, he decided it wasn't worth the fight.

Truthfully, both boys had actually been happy to see their father. To everyone's surprise Sam didn't rush to pull out of Dad's welcoming hug when they arrived, enjoying the familiar comfort of being wrapped in his father's strong arms which still had the ability to make both of his sons feel safe, and John happily held onto his normally surly teenager for as long as Sam tolerated it. There weren't necessarily a touchy-feely family usually, but long absences did make them all appreciate being together, safe and healthy.

Dean slipped back into the relaxed security of his father's orbit, ghosting John's movements as they researched and prepared for the job. He was only truly happy when in the company of both his father and little brother, as if a piece of himself was missing when one of the other Winchesters were not present. Together again, he was looking forward to a good summer, when Sam's school needs didn't conflict with the hunts that his father found.

That was last week.

Now Sam was beginning to chafe under John's dominant personality again, even when he didn't really want to fight with his father. He had also promised himself that he would try hard to keep his mouth shut for Dean's sake as much as possible during the summer to pay his brother back for sitting on the supernatural sidelines in Oklahoma when he knew perfectly well that Dean would have been much happier fighting alongside John these past few weeks.

It was a testament to how much pain his brother actually was in that Dean leaned back in the seat with his eyes tightly shut while Sam followed their father's truck back to the motel. Normally the older brother sat like a hawk, watching every tiny movement when Sam was allowed behind the wheel. For his part Sam was driving exceptionally cautiously and smoothly. More concerned that his brother's battered body was not jarred by any unexpected sudden movement than he was with Dean's approval of his driving skills.

When Sam glided to a slow halt in front of their motel room Dean grunted and forced his eyes open, turning slightly to blink owlishly at his little brother.

"Sammy?"

Sam frowned at the confusion in his brother's voice, worried that maybe Dean, despite no external evidence, had sustained a concussion as well. Fortunately, Dean seemed to shake off his lethargy almost immediately, sitting up and hissing when he moved his shoulder too quickly.

"Damn pills," he groaned, shifting a little more to grab the door handle.

Dad was already at Dean's door before Sam had even cut the engine, opening it and reaching in to assist his injured son to his feet. If it had been Sam trying to help he knew his brother would have smacked his hands away and insisted on trudging the few steps on his own power, but Dean didn't dare try that with their father. He allowed his dad to help him stand and was actually grateful for the strong supporting arm wrapped around his waist as he stumbled towards the door to their motel room.

"Sammy, get the bags," Dad called out over his shoulder as he guided Dean inside.

Sam obediently grabbed his bag and Dean's out of the trunk of the Impala, selecting a few basic weapons as well because you never knew what you might need in the middle of the night in their line of work, and then grabbed Dad's bag out of the truck. With all three hefted over his shoulder he followed his father and brother into the room and dumped them on the kitchenette table. John eased his eldest down onto the bed Dean had claimed for himself earlier in the week, ignoring his son's protest as he unlaced Dean's boots before pulling them off along with his socks.

"M'not five," Dean muttered, sulking in a voice that a real five year old could claim.

Sam could have sworn that he saw his father roll his eyes but quickly dismissed the idea. John Winchester didn't have a sense of humor that his younger son was aware of.

"You're not getting undressed without help with those ribs either," Dad said firmly. "Can you stand up to get your jeans off?"

The tightness in Dean's expression told Sam volumes about just how much his brother didn't want to get back on his feet, but with their father hovering over him there was no way Dean was going to be allowed to just curl up under the blankets fully dressed, so he gave John a quick nod and groaned his way back up to a hunched over standing position.

His father held him steady as he unbuttoned and unzipped with shaky hands, pushing his mud filthy and torn jeans down to his buckling knees. John eased him back down to a sitting position and tugged them off the rest of the way, ignoring the affronted glare his eldest was shooting at him. The older hunter was tired and hungry and not in the mood to tread gently with his son over personal space. The sooner Dean was undressed and asleep in bed, the sooner John and Sam could shower and eat.

With the practiced hands of a father who had often undressed two cranky, sleepy and non compliant children over the years, John swiftly removed Dean's sweat soaked T-shirt without disturbing the injured shoulder and bundled his eldest under the blankets. Dean's drug stupor had him asleep before his head even hit the flat mangled motel pillow, his father grabbing an extra blanket out of the closet and draping it over his son. The ancient AC unit was kicking out a fair amount of cold air that felt good now, but with Dean asleep in only his boxers John didn't want the kid to wake up shivering once the pain meds had worn off.

With his first born medicated and settled for the night John turned his attention to his younger son who had been sitting at the table quietly observing. The veteran hunter had not failed to notice the hit Sam took against the tree earlier, nor the blood stain on the boy's back afterwards. Neither seemed to be something to immediately worry about, but now that his more injured child had been tended to John needed to see to his younger son as well.

"Sammy, take your shirt off, kiddo," John ordered gently, crossing the room to the kitchen area. "Let me see the injury to your back."

Sam immediately stiffened out of reflex. He was seventeen for crying out loud. He didn't need his daddy putting a Band Aid on his boo boo like a toddler. He slipped out of the forties era kitschy chair and tried to make a break for the bathroom.

"It's fine, Dad," he insisted, ducking his head away from his father's increasingly irritated frown. "It doesn't even hurt."

John reached out and snaked Sam's arm, his grip firm but not painful, and wondering, not for the first time that evening, exactly when his offspring had decided that their father's commands were optional.

"Not asking, Son," he growled, halting the boy's attempted escape. "Get your shirt off and take a damn seat."

Sam huffed and postured, mentally debating the merits of picking a fight and then deciding against it after casting a quick glance at his sleeping brother. Dean needed rest to begin healing his injuries, and a brawl between his father and brother would rouse him even from a drug induced sleep. Sam frowned in defeat and grudgingly sat back down in his recently vacated seat. He lifted his shirt to yank it off, only to feel the sharp sting on his shoulder when the fabric pulled away taking a fair amount of dried on blood and soft skin with it. He drew a quick pained breath between his teeth and scowled, knowing that he had just proven to his father that the man had been right to worry after all. Wound disclosure was another iron clad rule in their messed up lives.

John pulled the first aid kit out of his go bag, arranging the contents in an orderly fashion, before going to the sink and thoroughly washing his hands. Stubborn kid, he thought, weary and annoyed. Everything had to be such a fight with Sam. Now his son had a trail of blood wending its way down his back. Sammy could lose an arm during a hunt and would still insist to his father that nothing was wrong just to be contrary.

Silently fuming, Sam sat quietly as his father cleaned his wound and assessed the damage, breathing a sigh of relief when John decided that he could close the gash with a butterfly instead of stitches. The boy had experienced motel room stitches before and it was never an experience that you got used to. His dad worked quickly and efficiently, his movements soothing and gentle to lessen the pain his son needed to endure during first aid.

Feeling the gentleness in John's ministrations even as he clinically treated his injured son, it was times like this that made Sam ache to be closer to his father. Dean often accused him of being unnecessarily hostile to John, and even Sam admitted to himself that the emotion that mostly reached the surface of his relationship with his dad was hate.

Sam hated their life. Hated the constant upheaval and danger and futility of chasing a faceless, nameless villain who had torn his family apart. He hated the vagabond drifter schooling and the illegal occupations that kept their little family fed and housed. He hated the evil they encountered everywhere and the ever present feeling of never being safe. At his various schools over the years he had met other kids who had lost a parent and still had normal lives and, for that, he hated his father for not choosing to do the same.

But for all that John was still the only parent Sam had ever known. His big brother loved and cared for him like another father or mother, or both, and while Sam was daily grateful for that it wasn't quite the same. In spite of all of the arguments and hardships that came with being John Winchester's son, Sam still loved his dad deeply, and that conflict of emotion warred inside of him every day, making him even more angry and prone to lashing out than if he did only feel hate for the man who helped give him life.

"You want the first shower?"

Sam blinked his eyes at the question, startled out of his thoughts by the deep rumble of his father's voice. He hadn't even realized that Dad had finished with his wound care and was now standing in front of him looking concerned. Sam desperately wanted a shower but John was still mud and sweat soaked, looking pretty rough himself, so he shook his head.

"I can wait."

His dad frowned, visually assessing him with worry still evident in his eyes. He seemed on the verge of saying something only to change his mind and head into the bathroom, his go bag in his hands.

Sam slumped tiredly across the table, folding his arms and resting his head in the crook of an elbow after hearing the shower start to run. With his shirt off the cold air in the room was starting to produce goose flesh on his sweat and mud crusted skin after only a few minutes. Feeling dirty and itchy he briefly pondered putting on a shirt, but not wanting to soil one of his few clean ones, he settled for dragging himself over to his bed and pulling a spare blanket around his shoulders.

Dad didn't take too long in the shower, clearly reserving some of the limited hot water for his son. When he emerged in a cloud of steam, wet hair slicked back and stubble making him look dangerous instead of exhausted as it had moments earlier, he was dressed in clean clothes and seemed ready to go again. John swept his eyes across the room to check on Dean, making sure his oldest seemed to be sleeping comfortably and then dropped his bag next to the fold out couch where he had been sleeping.

"I'm going out to pick up some dinner," he told Sam, whose stomach growled loudly at the reminder that they had not yet eaten that evening. "Keep an eye on your brother."

"Yes, sir."

Sam's tired and detached voice brought a frown to his father's face, and before he knew it John's calloused hand was gripping his chin and forcing his eyes upward. He scowled but his dad was insistent, and Sam knew the drill well enough to know that his father was checking his pupils for signs of concussion.

"I'm fine, Dad," he snapped, trying to pull out of his father's hold and finding himself unable to do so. It was unfair, really, that Dad was so much stronger.

While Sam stewed under John's careful observation he became hyper aware of Dean beginning to shift slightly in the next bed, so he clamped his mouth shut tightly to avoid challenging his father with heated words that would surely awaken Dean back to consciousness.

Once John had assured himself that his younger son wasn't suffering from any unseen head injuries he released Sam's chin, trying not to be hurt by the way the boy jerked his head away, his hazel eyes smoldering. He snagged the room key from the table and stalked towards the door.

"Careful with that back wound in the shower," he called over his shoulder, his voice more gruff than he intended.

There was a neon sign for a diner down the street and John decided that he could use the walk, so he bypassed his truck and trudged off down the cracked stone sidewalk. Although it had been a long day, the shower had revitalized him and what he really wanted right now was a good hard run. Even better would be a sparring session with his first born. Dean was now a formidable opponent and both of the older Winchesters relished the adrenaline rush of friendly hand to hand combat as a stress release.

But Dean was hurt.

Again.

Selflessly sacrificing his young body to protect his father and brother.

John ran his fingers through his damp hair as he barreled forward in the humid evening. His mind continuously replayed the image of his boy flying through the air and crashing shoulder first into an unforgiving slab of stone. He knew that he would have to tear his son a new one in the morning for disregarding a direct order and placing himself in the line of fire, even when he really just ached to gather up both of his boys in his arms and use his own body to shield them from anything that threatened them with harm.

But he couldn't do that.

Their family was cursed and John didn't have the luxury of coddling his children the way the love of a doting father inside of him wanted to. His boys needed to be ready, always. Prepared for whatever came at them, and it was his job to raise them right, even if it made them hate him. So when his boy woke from a drug induced slumber after being slam dunked into a gravestone, John would force the protective paternal affection back down his own throat and make himself verbally flay his son for a mistake that his child should never have been put into a position to make.

John knew that his actions made him a bastard. A tyrant of a drill sergeant that bullied his kids into obedience and submission. His boys were his entire world, his love for them intense enough to suck the air right out of his lungs when he allowed himself to really feel it. He had already lost his Mary, and John would be damned before he let his children be taken from him too. So if that meant he had to be hard on them, he would be. It was that simple.

They might look at him with loathing in their eyes, but that was okay as long they were alive to do it. That was what was important.

Stepping into the diner his nostrils were assaulted with the overly familiar smell of bacon grease and fryer oil. The place was clean for the neighborhood and the scent of sanitizing solution wafted from the empty tables and counter. He plopped down onto one of the swiveling counter stools and grabbed a menu from the small metal rack in front of him, pleased when it wasn't sticky with an unidentified substance on the surface like he had experienced more than once in shadier establishments.

While he was reading the daily specials a short brunette in her mid thirties came bustling out of the kitchen with a pie in each hand. Even from the distance John could smell the freshly baked crust and warm fruit and he made a mental note to purchase one for Dean. A small peace offering for after the sharp dressing down he was in store for. The Hunter's voice inside John growled its displeasure for such an indulgence, but for once the Father's voice won the argument.

He may have to tear into his kid up one side and back down the other, but he could give the boy some damn pie afterwards if he wanted to.

"What can I get you, handsome?"

John turned his gaze towards the dark haired waitress and easily picked up on her more than professional interest in him. He was used to the attention, having always been a pretty good looking guy. Sometimes his dark good looks came in handy for work when he needed to charm information out of a lonely clerk or librarian. Sometimes it was just annoying or uncomfortable in a life where it was decidedly unhelpful to be remarkable looking and could get you identified easily.

The waitress gifted him with a huge smile and he returned one of his own. Not particularly interested, although it had been awhile since he had enjoyed the company of a woman in his bed. Another time he might have been tempted to indulge in a couple of hours of pleasure with a willing partner, but tonight he needed to get back to his boys, getting Sam fed and making sure that Dean was sleeping as painlessly as possible.

Besides, he preferred blondes. It was easier to see Mary's face on the woman he was having sex with when she was a blonde. It had been easier with Nurse Kate up in Minnesota, sweet and caring and not quite curious enough about his suspicious injuries to really pry the truth out of him. Easier with Tara, a fellow hunter that he could share experiences of The Life, their bellies warm with whiskey as they romped between cheap motel sheets.

"Two meatloaf specials, extra gravy on the potatoes and the heart healthy turkey burger," he answered, warmly enough to ensure prompt service, but not warm enough to invite company. "Thank you, sweetheart."

She threw an appreciative glance at him over her shoulder as she bounced back towards the kitchen doors. John chuckled humorlessly to himself as he absently fingered the gold band on his left hand out of habit. Sixteen and a half years and his Mary's face was still etched sharply in his mind's eye, and he was grateful for that small mercy. Keeping her beautiful face ever present only strengthened his mission, his resolve to bring her justice.

There would be a reckoning one day, he swore it to her with his first breath every single morning. John had resigned himself long ago that he wouldn't make it out of this fight in one piece, and that was okay. That was fine, he accepted it, but the filth that took his Mary would go down with him and would never get it's hands on his boys.

Especially his Sammy. His baby. Whatever It was, John knew his youngest was smack dab in the center of everything and he wouldn't allow his child to be taken. Not while John himself drew breath.

Bouncy waitress came bounding back over to him, a full pot of coffee in her hand, and she proceeded to pour him a cup without asking.

"You look like you could use this, Sugar," she said gently, her blue eyes flirting with him.

John nodded his thanks but didn't encourage conversation, to her disappointment, and she took the hint after a moment and bounced off to refill cups further down the counter. He didn't drink the coffee but he did wrap his hands around the mug to warm them, suddenly feeling cold and weary again, the ever present fear for his sons' safety an icy stabbing in his gut that was only dulled with bloodshed and booze.

When the bags full of styrofoam containers appeared in front of him he pulled a handful of crumpled bills from his wallet and laid them on the counter. Enough for the dinner for his boys that didn't come from a drive-thru window or a can, a whole cherry guilt pie for his banged up kid, and a decent tip for the flirty lady that was probably just in need of some basic human contact like John occasionally was himself.

This wasn't the life he wanted. Not for himself, for his Mary or his boys. But it was the life they had, and John was just going to have to play through the pain.

Dad was barely out the motel room door in search of their dinner when Sam threw the blanket off of his bare shoulders and slipped soundlessly into the bathroom. The small room was still damp with condensation from his father's shower and he was careful not to slip on the tiled floor as he adjusted the ancient knobs until a steady steamy spray erupted from the corroded shower head.

Not wanting to waste precious hot water he quickly kicked off his soiled jeans, boxers and socks and pushed his aching body into the stall. Layer by layer, he felt the sweat and mud slide off his skin as he scrubbed himself with the dwindling bar of generic motel soap. Once in a while Dean would slip him a few bucks to indulge in a good quality body wash that made Sam feel a little more human, but most of the time he had to make do with whatever cheap product the rooms came with.

One day, Sam wouldn't be made happy with occasional name brand toiletries. One day Sam would be happy because he had a nice house and a nice family to live in it. A good life. A safe life. One where he didn't have to rush scrubbing off graveyard dirt just for a few minutes of privacy in a dingy motel shower to be able to jerk off without his father or brother overhearing this most basic of seventeen year old boy needs like he did now.

Chest heaving as his blood flow returned to the usual places, he leaned his forehead against the arm he had pressed against the shower wall and caught his breath. He knew Dean wouldn't be waking up any time soon so he didn't feel guilty about soaking himself until the water began to cool down. Only then did he turn the shower off and step out onto the damp bath mat.

He grabbed the only clean towel left and dried off, promising himself that he would lift one from the housekeeping cart before Dean needed to wash in the morning, wrapping it around his hips and heading back out into the bedroom. A quick glance in his brother's direction assured Sam that Dean was still out cold, not having moved an inch since being bundled into bed by their father.

Dad would be back soon, assuming there were no bars between the motel and wherever he was picking up dinner, so Sam hurried to pull on his pajama pants and the T-shirt he had been sleeping in the past two nights. Clean and more relaxed he lay on his stomach on his bed, a used copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls clasped in his hands. He was grateful for the book sale that the library at his school in Oklahoma held on the last day of class, thrilled to have had enough cash in his wallet leftover from the lunch money Dean gave him every day to acquire seven books, now jammed into the corners of his duffel. His self imposed summer reading list partially covered with minimal fuss.

It wasn't hard to engross himself in the novel, even as his stomach rumbled in its demand to be fed. If it had been Dean getting dinner Sam might have dug into their snack stash to satisfy his hunger, because his brother would certainly bring back greasy bags of cholesterol, but Sam grudgingly acknowledged that his dad was more likely to produce a decent meal, so he waited.

Less than a chapter in Sam heard a key in the door rattle and he jumped up from the bed to take the bulging plastic bags from his father's hands as he made his way inside. There were suddenly several mouth watering aromas filling the stale motel room air and Sam's stomach growled in impatient anticipation as he emptied the containers on the kitchenette table. Dad headed straight to Dean's bed and Sam watched him gently lay his hand on his brother's head and evaluate his condition.

"He wake up at all?"

"No, sir," Sam answered, his voice matching the quiet tone of his father's question.

His father nodded to himself, hesitating a moment at his son's bedside, seemingly reluctant to leave him just yet. Dad sat on the edge of Sam's bed and continued to watch Dean's chest slowly rise and fall in slumber, only tearing his gaze away long enough to indicate the to-go containers.

"Eat, Sammy," he ordered quietly. "You gotta be starving by now, kiddo."

Sam didn't deny it, quickly pouncing on the container labeled 'turkey burger' knowing that it was for him. Where Dean couldn't understand why his little brother preferred to avoid a heart attack by age thirty, their Dad usually made an effort to get Sam healthier meals when possible.

Sitting at the little table, Sam inhaled the sandwich, enjoying the whole grain roll it came on. A far cry from the white, doughy, squashy bread that tasted like pure sugar to him and was the staple of take out sandwiches. The standard diner fries that Sam couldn't ingest anymore were mercifully replaced with carrot and celery sticks and a fresh fruit cup, and Sam threw his father a sincere look of gratitude for the care he had obviously taken when ordering when John eventually joined him at the table.

While his dad took a forkful of his own meatloaf dinner, Sam felt an annoying prickle in the corner of his eyes as he suppressed a ridiculous and uncomfortable longing to bury himself in his father's arms. Why a stupid thing like a turkey burger made him crave affection, he had no clue. Maybe because it was just one of the many small ways that convinced Sam that John actually knew how to be a good father, even though he was more likely to keep his sons at arms length with barked commands and rebukes instead of praise.

His dad wouldn't refuse to hug him, he knew that well enough because John had never denied his children affection when they asked for it. But his father also didn't approve of unnecessary weakness, and Sam didn't want to show any. Not over something as silly or ordinary as simple diner food.

Instead, the two of them passed the meal in total silence with Sam internally warring against a need to connect with his father and John deliberately keeping his mouth shut to avoid anything that might unintentionally provoke an argument with his youngest. When their containers were empty John stuck the one containing a meatloaf dinner for Dean into the small motel fridge. His boy would wake up starving and the food would microwave nicely.

"Want some pie?"

Sam looked up from his book to see his father pull a plump pastry from the last bag, a slight twinkle in his eye as he looked over at Dean to see if the magical word woke him. The younger boy laughed softly and shook his head.

"He'd kill me if there was a piece missing," Sam said seriously, making his father chuckle as well.

From the far side of the room they heard a quiet whisper.

"Pie."

Dean was frowning in his sleep, moving only slightly before taking a deep sighing breath and beginning to snore again.

At the table the two other Winchesters laughed as quietly as they could, sharing a rare lighthearted moment before falling into uncomfortable silence again. John cleared his throat, his usual gruff mask back in place.

"Let me check that wound one more time, kiddo. Then you should hit the rack. It's late."

A stinging protest died on Sam's lips as he stopped himself from picking a fight. Instead he turned his back to his father and pulled up his shirt, allowing John to assure himself that no further first aid would be required tonight. He felt his dad easing his shirt back down and the gentle touch he was using broke down Sam's defenses and the boy found himself turning and wrapping his arms around his father. He was surprisingly pleased when Dad didn't even hesitate to pull him close, careful to avoid the back injury as he encircled his boy in a strong embrace.

"You okay, Sammy?" he heard his dad ask with a touch of worry in his voice.

Sam just nodded into his father's shoulder, his nose buried into the comforting flannel that had been a childhood symbol of safety, security and home. As much as he hated his current life, Sam loved his father and brother, and it was the dark little voice itching in the back of his mind that was petrified that they would no longer love him after he left hunting for good once he was eighteen and could decide for himself.

Would his father still want to hold him close when Sam turned his back on the family business?

Thankfully Dad dropped the inquiry and simply hugged him, easing Sam's guilt of the past week of tension and altercations between them. Sam stayed in the safe circle of his father's embrace until he felt the knot in his chest loosen. Only then did he pull away, his face now flushed with embarrassment over his neediness.

"I'm gonna brush my teeth," he muttered, averting his eyes as he skirted his father's gaze and fled into the bathroom.

Morning was still far off when Dean began to stir in wakefulness.

As usual Dad was already up, the pullout sofa he had been sleeping on looking barely used as he hunched over thick manila folders of newspaper clippings. The older hunter never slept much, even when his head was sluggish from an evening spent with Jim, Jack or Jose. The oldest Winchester brother woke to the smell of bitter burnt motel coffee from the small machine on the counter, the carafe already almost empty from multiple refills of the stained ceramic mug by John's side as he read.

Sam blinked into consciousness unwillingly, roused by his brother's movement, and watched, bleary eyed, as Dean struggled to sit upright. His brother's distress propelled him from his own bed to offer an assisting hand, only to be shoved back.

"Get off me, dude, M'fine."

Holding an arm around his still painful ribs, Dean struggled briefly to get to his feet and stagger into the bathroom, avoiding both his father and brother attempting to help him. Bracing one hand against the wall, he managed to take a piss without losing his balance, his head still spinning from the pain medication. Which was unfortunate, since it wasn't doing anything for his actual pain at the moment.

With a few suppressed hisses and grunts he got the shower running and then stripped down, still feeling gross from the night before and annoyed that his father had insisted on medicating him before he could even wash up from the hunt. The hot water was pounding against his skin, loosening his taut muscles and helping his headache to recede slightly.

By the time he had maneuvered his way out of the stall he felt a million times better even as his completely empty stomach roared to life in protest of his neglect to fill it. There were no clean towels left and he swore colorfully when he was forced to dry off using the one from the previous day.

Dad had already heated something in the microwave for him and the heavenly smell of meat and potatoes greeted Dean when he eventually stumbled out of the bathroom. Still uncoordinated and cranky, he grunted a semblance of thanks in his father's direction before dropping himself down in one of the hard plastic chairs and ripping into his food.

"Can you eat that any faster, Son?" his dad teased, saying the words that both parents had admonished him with when his bad table manners were on display.

"No," Dean replied, around a mouthful of potatoes that threatened to make an unscheduled reappearance on his plate. "No, I cannot."

John laughed softly, as he was meant to over the little ritual he regularly engaged in with his firstborn. Mary had started it when Dean was just a little guy and couldn't seem to stop eating everything in sight. Over the years it had become a comforting habit, a small silly reminder of happier days. Even at twenty-one, his oldest son still occasionally ate like a child.

Returning to his latest research John's mouth curved in a small smile as he watched his son eat, making sure the kid didn't face plant into his potatoes. Dean was still clearly tired and disoriented, and when the plate was finally empty it didn't take much to persuade him back into his bed for a few more hours. Sam had fallen back asleep almost immediately when his brother went to shower and now, with them both settled again, John took a brief pause to watch his boys slumber peacefully before resuming his reading.

It was almost approaching lunch hour by the time the boys surfaced again from sleep. During the morning, John had acquired more soap and towels from the housekeeper when he heard the familiar creak of a cart's wheels lumbering down the walkway between room doors. When the Winchesters stayed in a motel the Do Not Disturb, tag remained firmly in place for the duration, lest an unsuspecting maid come across something that could result in all kinds of trouble for them.

After washing up Sam was summarily booted from the room to fetch breakfast for everyone. He didn't even need to see his brother's shoulders tense to know that his absence would finally give their father the opening to lay into Dean for his reckless actions the evening before. A burning heat rose in Sam's chest, his indignation and fury over his big brother once again taking the blame for a mistake that Sam had made.

He wasn't going to let it happen this time.

But Dean being Dean, his big brother knew that Sam was about to fall on his sword before the kid had even opened his mouth. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder and ribs, Dean pulled a wad of cash out of his pants pocket, grabbed Sam by the back of his shirt and literally shoved the younger boy through the door.

"Out, Sam," he growled, shaking his head slightly in a warning to his little brother to keep his mouth shut. "Dad and I need to talk."

Sam's attempts to protest were met with a slammed door in his face as he stood helplessly outside on the walkway. Defeated, he sighed heavily, annoyed at his martyr of a brother and more than ashamed of himself for not fighting harder to take his share of the blame.

It wasn't the first time that Dean had stood between Sam and their father. It wasn't the one hundred and first time either. Sam's big brother was literally the Wall of Dean, shielding Sam from the wrath of John Winchester from the minute Sam learned how to speak, his first word being No to absolutely no one's surprise. A lifelong habit of protection that had only been magnified by Dean's eighteenth birthday when, as an adult, he was no longer subject to the repercussions of a child disobeying his father.

As he ambled along the cracked sidewalk in the path his father had taken the night before, Sam jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and dropped his chin practically to his chest. His brother had two mandates in his life that he chose to define himself with.

Look out for Sammy and Make Dad proud.

Sure, Dean had things he enjoyed. A pretty lady. A good meal. Ganking an evil son of a bitch. But these pleasures always took a backseat to the two primal needs.

Always.

Their entire lives Dean had saved Sam's ass, literally and figuratively, more times that Sam could ever count or repay. And he was doing it again right now. While Sam ran like a coward to the diner to meekly fetch food, Dean was taking a bruising to his ears and his ego, allowing their father to rage over his brother's perceived failures and taking a chunk out of Dean's self respect in the process.

Sam hated his father for never hesitating to belittle Dean for his failures. He hated Dean for his constant willingness to be made less than. And he hated himself most of all for doing nothing to stop it.

Sure enough, by the time Sam returned to their room, laden down with more styrofoam containing enough animal products to horrify PETA, his father and brother were sitting at the kitchenette table in silence. John bent, as usual, over his never ending pile of research materials and Dean scooping up large bites of cherry pie in his mouth.

Outwardly, his brother looked fine, casually leaning back in his chair while he ate, throwing Sam a smirk as he dumped the bags on the table. But there was a tightness to Dean's eyes that only an adoring little brother could detect, a sagging of his broad shoulders that screamed proof that Dad had torn a strip off of Dean's confidence.

Tomorrow, Sam would beg a ride to the local library. Hopefully to use their computer where he could surreptitiously begin a research project of his own. He had one last year in high school to do what he could to earn a place at a university. A place where he could leave this world of hurt, blood and pain behind.

He was getting out.