A Brother's Sacrifice

by ayosb2000

Completely AU. John really did want Dean to have a home and for Sam to go to school. At Sonny's, Dean saw the possibility of another life, but chose family. Sam is chafing under his father's thumb. An exploration of what might have happened if Dean stood up to his father and decided that normal and hunting could co-exist. A large re-write of a previous story I wrote years ago.

8. December 2000

Fratricide: from the Latin words frater "brother" and cida "killer," or cidum "a killing," both from caedere "to kill, to cut down") is the act of killing one's brother.

It's a story literally as old as time.

From the very beginning, starting with the biblical tale of Cain and Abel, brothers have found themselves locked in mortal combat, until one of them triumphs and commits one of the greatest atrocities known to man.

Killing your own brother.

From the mythical story of twins Romulus and Remus of Rome, to the Egyptian god Osiris, lord of the underworld, mutilated and murdered by Set. The literary King Hamlet, slayed by his brother Claudius in Shakespeare's tale. To Genghis Khan of early Mongolia, who killed his older brother Begter.

Even Hollywood has been known to spin the stories with characters such as Godfather Michael Corleone, ruthlessly ordering the cold blooded shooting of his brother Fredo.

History, real and imaginary, is full of examples of what happens when brothers simply cannot get along.

And in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, Dean Winchester was rapidly feeling the urge to kill his little brother Sam with increasing vigor.

Of course, he wouldn't.

For someone who had spent the last seventeen years of his life giving everything he had in him to keep the little shit alive, killing him at this juncture would render all of his previously hard won efforts moot.

Although, if Sam didn't knock off the attitude right the fuck now, Dean might not be able to be held liable for his actions.

And Sam might find himself surprised to realize that you didn't have to actually shed your brother's blood to mortally wound him

/

If Sam had any self preservation instincts at all, he would have thought twice about getting into that car in the first place. Proving, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his brother had been right all along.

/

Early December was a stressful time at a competitive school like Holy Rosary. Semester finals were approaching with the barreling intensity of a bullet train, and class rankings were being clawed for with all of the aggression of a MMA cage fight.

There are no kindhearted Christian attitudes when it comes to GPAs at private prep schools. On the heels of a triumphant SAT test, where Sam had scored in the 99th percentile, he was going full bore with his plans to earn the best possible college education.

Sam was used to working hard at his studies. Life on the road isn't necessarily conducive to academic achievement unless one is truly dedicated. Especially when one had a big brother that spent the majority of his time either bouncing off the walls in some sort of caffeinated and chocolaty induced frenzy or mercilessly teasing you strictly out of sheer boredom.

The younger Winchester had to learn, from an early age, how to block out unwanted distractions if he was to have any hope at all of making the kinds of grades he knew he needed for higher education.

This was the first time that Sam had needed to multitask adding a girlfriend into the mix, however.

Having Kristin attend that Halloween party without him still stung on some unacknowledged subconscious level, although she had been relatively understanding about the demands on his schedule, and his restrictions at home. As perky and popular as she was, Kristin had educational goals too, and was not without the need to spend evenings at home keeping up with studies as well.

Or so she said.

She had assured him on several occasions that she didn't expect him to be available every day, and Sam had smiled his adorably shy smile and blushed, because he couldn't believe that he had found such a beautiful, amazing and accommodating girl.

He had a group of study buddies from the smart kids clique that rotated homes for evening sessions a couple of nights during the week. Dean wasn't terribly thrilled with the idea of his little brother being absent for several hours where he couldn't keep a close eye on Sam's surroundings without stalking him, but Sam needed some space, and big brother was going to just grit his teeth and bear it over the uncertainty and let him go.

The proper precautions were taken, because Dad wasn't going to allow it without them. Under the guise of dropping Sam off and having a friendly introductory meeting with the parents of Sam's study buddies, the houses had all been surreptitiously investigated and then vetted with the Winchester Stamp of Non Supernatural Activity Approval.

Dean also made sure that their own house was as comfortable and welcoming as possible, in an attempt to maybe persuade the study group that their sessions might be more relaxed and fun held in a house monitored by a cool older brother instead of overbearing and nosy parents.

In truth, the other kids in the study group did enjoy their sessions at the Winchester house, and it was only because Sam was chomping at the bit to get some distance from his brother that he couldn't see that he was the only one who would rather be someplace else.

Dean tried not to be offended by this obvious slight, and vigorously suppressed the little voice inside of him that was caustically taunting and suggesting that it was because Sam thought that his older brother wasn't smart enough to be comfortable around his fellow nerds.

It was already starting to snow when Sam's alarm went off that Thursday morning.

Predictably, Dean banged on his door, shouting out his customary and enthusiastic wake up call. Reluctantly pulling himself from the warm coziness of his bed, Sam trudged down the hall and used the bathroom, splashing water on his face to help clear the cobwebs from his head a little more.

Still dark outside, because five-thirty came very early in the winter months, he stumbled back to his bedroom and pulled on his sweats and running shoes. He could hear motion downstairs in the living room, and wasn't surprised because Dean always managed to get up and moving first.

Dean could live on four hours of sleep.

Always had been able, from Sam's earliest memories. It was truly annoying sometimes, because his brother's restless energy could set Sam's teeth on edge on occasion. It was like Dean just wouldn't relax, only getting the barest amount of rest to keep his body from shutting down.

He could do absolute marathon drives when they were on the road. Always alert and never letting his guard down, even for a moment.

By the time Sam shuffled down the stairs, Dean was already limbering up for their run. Sam gave his older brother the barest of acknowledging grunts, pulling on his warmest hoodie before the two of them darted off into the dark, muffled and chilly pre-dawn morning.

It took a few minutes to get into a steady rhythm, but once Sam did, he relished the pump of adrenaline through his veins, urging his brain to wakefulness. Moving silently, trying not to slip on the snow slick streets, with only the occasional huff of breathy exertion pushed from their lungs, the brothers ran side by side without speaking.

They had a set route.

Exactly five miles long, as ordered, on relatively flat terrain. Dressed in layers to protect themselves against the briskness of the early morning air of a South Dakota winter, it didn't take long for them to start to sweat as they went through their paces. Sam had a longer stride, but what Dean lacked in length, he made up for in raw power, so they were pretty evenly matched.

Normally they didn't mind the workout. A lifetime spent conditioning alongside their sibling, competitive, yet also encouraging, they spent their mornings in a companionable quietness, never feeling the need to make small talk as they ran. Lately, however, Sam was feeling more and more irritation at what he perceived as his big brother hovering over his every move.

It was stifling on occasion, and though he knew that Dean did it only out of concern, the new family dynamic of living in separate spaces was growing on the younger brother.

With a semblance of independence and privacy that neither had ever known before, after years spent in the confining closeness of tiny motel rooms, the constant presence of his brother forever in his peripheral vision was starting to chafe.

Sam was used to their lives on the road. While they traveled from town to town, his big brother would often be away in the evenings. Either working or, more likely, hustling at pool or poker or, even more likely, in the bed of a willing young lady, Sam had time alone to himself to read or study, or even watch some porn when he could get away with it.

Dean didn't go out much anymore.

His big brother's usual habits couldn't be sustained in a town where they had planted roots. You can't hustle in bars where the regulars knew you. You didn't find an endless stream of women to buy into your ever changing background story and aliases so that there were no strings to the one night stands.

Dean had a steady job in the day while Sam went to school. They weren't well off, but they were getting by easier than ever before, financially, so there was no urgency to go out and make risky moves to earn fast cash.

Sam knew his brother went to the salvage yard in the evenings when he was with his study group, or when he could slip away for a few hours with Kristin at the local coffee house where the popular kids clique hung out at night. Dean was always promptly on time to pick his little brother up and return him back to the house in accordance with Dad's proclamations, and once they were home, Dean didn't go back out.

Even though there was nothing in the rules preventing him from doing so.

It was as if his already maniacally protective older brother had dialed his watch dog duties all the way up to eleven, reluctant to leave Sam's immediate proximity.

And it was making Sam crazy.

As they ran, Sam was suddenly overcome with a prickle of annoyance over the incessant closeness, the constant feeling of an inescapable fraternal shadow. A sense of suffocating claustrophobia engulfed him, and he pumped his arms harder and picked up the pace, leaving his brother slightly in the distance of the snowy street a mile from home.

At first, Dean surged himself closer, probably thinking that his brother was just trying to push them a little harder, but when Sam kicked himself even further forward, Dean dropped back and let him go on alone.

Sam felt a slight pang of guilt, but it passed as quickly as it had come, and he was already upstairs and heading towards the shower by the time he heard his brother enter the house behind him.

He took longer to get ready than normal, reluctant to make his way downstairs where he knew he would have to suffer the scrutiny of an overprotective guardian forever examining his every breath and movement under a microscope. Always keenly aware, with a fine tuned laser focus that could make Sam feel like the family lab rat. Sometimes the burning white hot intensity of his brother's observation of him just left him feeling blinded and scorched from the heat of Dean's sharp assessing eyes.

He knew he was being touchy and unreasonable.

Knew that Dean had been tasked with the responsibility for Sam's safety from a time when his brother was just a small child himself. That was another thing that Sam resented about their father.

John had his eldest son so brainwashed into putting Sam's needs and safety first, it was almost like their father didn't see that maybe Dean needed to be taken care of too.

The soothing hot water of the shower calmed him and lowered the emotions running through him to a more reasonable and manageable level. He dressed, grabbed his backpack and headed downstairs, determined to be less of an ass, because Dean hadn't really done anything this morning to deserve the relative cold shoulder Sam had given him.

Dean was in the kitchen making coffee, and the smell of the dark roast wafted through the house with an inviting aroma. Before grabbing a cup, Sam headed to the small alcove between the kitchen and the mudroom, as was his usual habit these days.

Right before Thanksgiving, Dean had brought home a second hand HP desktop for Sam to use for his schoolwork.

The manager of the electronics shop near Holy Rosary had come to Singer Salvage hoping for a cheap price for a rebuilt transmission. The guy's finances were bumpy and Dean offered a horse trade, scoring a computer for his little brother. A couple of days later, Dean reworked their budget and arranged for internet service as well.

Technically, it was the family computer, and Sam knew that he would be expected to step up his contribution in research for his father, but it was nice to finally have a computer at his disposal full time. Since then, he had gotten into the habit of checking his email first thing every morning, and reading things that he found interesting, instead of just looking for cases and the lore to go with them.

Dean had also picked up a small desk and chair from the Salvation Army in town, and the pieces fit nicely in the little alcove.

Throwing his backpack on the floor near the door, Sam slipped into the chair and booted the computer up, throwing his brother a small smile of appreciation when he found a cup of coffee, already doctored to his tastes, placed on the desk next to him.

At least Dean didn't seem to be holding a grudge about their earlier run.

The first email to pop up was from Kristin, and for a moment, Sam felt another wave of irritation over the fact that he'd had to lie and tell her that he turned his phone off after ten for study purposes, so she often sent emails instead to talk about potential plans for the next day. Text messages were limited and expensive, and Dean discouraged excessive uses of them unless it was for hunting.

It took only a second for his day to turn to shit again.

Kristin had left a very enthusiastic message about a party being held at Smith Harris' house that evening.

Another football player, and the best friend of Trenton, Kristin's reluctant ex, Smith was one of the few troublemakers at Sam's school. His parents were wealthy. They traveled a lot and left Smith home to his own devices, which usually included regular bouts of underage drinking and recreational drug use.

They contributed a lot of money to the campaigns of the local politicians and, in return, their son was generally left alone by local law enforcement.

Tonight was Smith's birthday, and with parents too consumed with their own lives to be bothered to spend it with their son, he was throwing a huge bash for himself, and everyone was invited to come.

Sam's sympathies for Smith's lack of parental involvement were practically non-existent at the moment, as he felt a flash of jealousy for the freedom that his classmate was given by his family, while Sam was practically held hostage by his own.

Kristin insisted that Sam needed to make an appearance this time, regardless of what his study schedule looked like. For the first time, she officially referred to him as her boyfriend, the word making him smile with all the dimples, and she was very clear that he was expected to escort her.

The problem was, Dean would never agree.

The Harris house was on his big brother's no-fly list.

All that time getting cozy with the parents of Sam's teammates had given Dean an inside track on who the problem children were. Which of course, Sam now realized, had been the point, and that rankled him even more. The school was small enough that just about everyone knew everybody else, so naturally his overbearing asshat of a brother would have ferreted out the dirty info by any means necessary.

He shut the computer down and sidled over to the kitchen table. Already set out was the container of granola that he had developed a recent taste for, along with a banana, a container of milk and a glass of juice. Instead of being appreciative of his brother's thoughtfulness, the gesture just ramped up his irritation another notch as he unfairly compared Dean's pushy actions to their father's overbearing manner.

"Why do you always have to assume you know what I want for breakfast?"

Sam's blunt statement forced Dean to glance up from his own plate, a look of surprise and confusion on his face.

"What?"

"Maybe I was planning on having something else," Sam bit back, already removing the offending items from the table. "Maybe I wanted yogurt today."

Dean gave him a questioning glare and cocked an eyebrow.

"Okaaay. Have some damn yogurt."

Seriously? Where did that come from?

His brother's acquiescence did nothing to quell the frustration swirling on the tip of Sam's tongue.

"That's not the point, Dean," he continued, not placated. "You just assume. You never ask my opinion."

Years of dealing with his little brother's moods had made Dean an expert on knowing exactly when Sam was lashing out about something totally unrelated to whatever childish fight he was trying to pick.

"Who pissed in your cornflakes this morning, Sammy?"

"It's Sam."

Dean rolled his eyes and held his hands up in surrender. Already a little miffed about his brother's unscheduled hundred meter dash earlier, and now not willing to get into an argument either on appropriate breakfast selections or nicknames.

"Fine, Sam. Eat what you want. Yogurt, cereal, one of your textbooks. I don't really care, but decide, already. We're leaving in ten minutes."

He got up from his own seat and rinsed off his plate before pouring another cup. When he turned around, Sam was still seething in his chair, making no move to get into gear.

Kid just couldn't make this easy.

"What? Seriously. What's got your panties in a bunch?"

"Nothing," Sam spat out, jumping up from his chair with such force it was almost knocked down behind him. He grabbed his backpack and stomped to the front door, throwing it open with unnecessary force and slamming it behind him.

Dean dumped his recently poured cup into the sink and shut the machine off. It wasn't even eight a.m. yet and he already had a killer headache. His little brother had been an absolute pain in the ass for the past few days, and while he had tried to be patient about it, it was really beginning to grate on his nerves.

By the time he had grabbed his coat, secured the house and made it to the car, Sam was sitting in the passenger seat looking ready to spit nails.

Dean made the executive decision to work him extra hard during their sparring tonight because clearly the kid needed to let off some steam.

The snow had continued during the morning, and the roads were slippery. The Impala was as steady as they came, and Dean handled her like a gentle lover as they sledded through the streets on the way to Sam's school. Next to him, Sam sat quietly, head leaning against the window, lost in thought.

At least he wasn't arguing.

Dean was feeling grateful for small mercies right about now. Sooner or later the kid would open up to him about whatever was going on in that freakish Cro-Magnon skull of his. His little brother was a chronic brooder.

Been there and done that. Wrote the book and got the T-shirt.

'Kristin called me her boyfriend."

The quiet statement startled Dean out of his thoughts, and he looked over briefly to see his little brother staring plaintively at him. For a moment, Dean wondered if Sam was upset by that, because Dean would have felt corralled by a girl that labeled him.

But then again, Sam was definitely a more relationship oriented kind of guy. He decided to go for congratulatory.

"Sammy, you sly dog! Good for you, kiddo."

He was rewarded with one of his little brother's shy grins and knew that he had been right that Sam was happy about his official relationship status.

"You know," Dean continued, wanting to keep the light mood going, "Dad isn't expecting us this weekend. Why don't you take her someplace special Saturday? I'll let you have the car for a night."

Sam smiled even wider and Dean smirked back, happy that the kid was climbing out of the doldrums he had been mired in all morning.

He probably should have known that it was too good to be true.

"Actually, she wants me to take her to a party." Pause "Tonight."

Dean pursed his lips and cast a side eyed glance at his now squirming little brother. He thought about it for a few seconds and decided not to dismiss it out of hand. Sam knew the rules. Would probably not ask for permission to do something that would break them.

Of course he was completely wrong.

"There's a birthday party, and everyone is going."

Dean cocked an eyebrow and looked pointedly at his little brother, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Sam seemed to take a deep breath and glanced casually out the window.

"It's at Smith Harris' house."

"No."

Sam seemed startled by the speed and vehemence of the answer, but he wasn't cowed enough to back down. They could talk about this like two reasonable people.

"Dean, c'mon, man. It will be fine. You know most of the people going."

"And you're not going to be one of them."

Now frustration was setting in, and Sam felt the renewed vigor of his earlier testiness come slamming back at a roaring speed.

"I can handle myself against vengeful spirits, werewolves and ghouls. I think I can manage to hold my own against a few high school students."

Dean scowled and stared at his brother while he waited at a red street light, wondering when it was that Sam's common sense left him to go on vacation to the Bahamas.

"What part of no didn't you get, little brother? That kid is nothing but trouble."

"So what?" Sam fumed. "What makes you think that I can't watch out for myself and make the right choices to stay safe?"

The light turned green and Dean pushed the car forward, correcting her gently when the rear tires slid slightly to the right.

"The choices have already been made, Sam. By Dad. He was very clear that you don't hang out with kids that use drugs."

Sam shook his head derisively, building up the steam to tell his brother, in no uncertain terms, what he felt about Dad's decision making process most of the time.

"Yeah, 'cause Dad is such a paragon of virtue," he huffed. "Dude, he's had us breaking laws since puberty."

"Well, his word is still law in our house," Dean stated with finality, tired of beating that particular poor dead horse. "So you are just going have to deal with that."

Over in the passenger seat, Dean could tell that his little brother was seething, and he could understand why, from a certain point of view. Sam's reins were pretty tight, and he usually endured them without too much complaint.

But reason and common sense sometimes flew directly out the window when a pretty girl entered the picture. He liked Kristin well enough, but she was definitely one of those beautiful girls that were accustomed to getting their way.

He decided for distraction, because he didn't really want to fight with his brother all day.

"Besides, don't you have your study group over at Michael's house tonight?"

Sam was looking away from him, head leaning again against the side window. The fight seemed to have gone directly out of his sails, and while Dean didn't like to see the kid so upset, he wasn't backing down on this one.

"Yeah."

The rest of the trip was silent, and by the time Dean pulled up to the drop off curb, Sam's face was pinched in a seriously pissed off scowl. Hoping to diffuse his brother, he went for conciliatory.

"She'll understand, Sam. If she really cares about you."

"Just shut up, Dean," Sam muttered angrily, getting out and turning to close the car door.

The uncalled for attack got Dean's back up, because he didn't take crap like that from anyone except their father, and he certainly wasn't going to take it from his snot nosed, pain in the ass brother.

"I'll be here at five sharp. I suggest you pull that stick out of your ass before then, or we're going to have a problem."

Sam's eyes flared, and for a second he gave serious thought to slamming the door.

Hard.

He only resisted because he knew Dean wouldn't hesitate to get out and kick his ass in front of the other students, not caring that it would utterly embarrass Sam.

He closed it gently and stalked off to the front door, leaving his brother behind to gape at him and wonder what the fuck just happened.

/

The young hunter smiled fondly as he shut the hood of his Jeep. It had only taken an hour to fix this time. Apparently his mother was getting less creative with her machinations as she got older. It was a game they played as the years passed. She vandalized his car in an attempt to keep him home, and he fixed it back up and pretended to blame it on the normal wear and tear of an aging and beloved vehicle.

He had already disappointed her in so many ways, he was okay with letting her have her hissy fits about his frequent trips away from their home.

Striding back into the house, brushing snow from his coat carefully so he didn't get grease on it, he headed towards his office. His go-bag was lying on his desk, always packed and easily accessible. He rummaged around for a minute and grabbed a few more innocuous looking weapons. Since he was going to have to cross the border into the US today, the fewer lethal things he needed to hide in the car, the better.

You never know when border control might get curious.

He paused for a minute, looking over at his cork board, and wondered if he should bring along one of his oldest possessions. Considering what he was about to walk into, he probably was going to need all the evidence he could get. The man he was going to be meeting had a larger than life reputation in their world, and he wasn't someone who was known to take things on faith.

Mind made up, he sorted through the various layers of newspaper articles and photos that had built up over the years until he finally found the slightly fading Polaroid at the very back of the pile. He hadn't looked at it in years, although the subject of the photo was ever present on his mind. Every time he went on the hunt, that face flashed in front of his eyes and only increased his determination that the path he had chosen was righteous.

He couldn't part with it completely.

Regardless of what he was getting ready to do. He flipped on his computer and scanner, and when they were warmed up and ready, he put the photo on the scanning bed and saved a digital copy. He would take the time to print out a duplicate for himself later.

Packing the photo into his bag, he switched off the lights to his office and headed out to the entryway of the house, where his mother was nervously pacing, anticipating his departure. He smiled sweetly at her, hating to cause her distress, but knowing that what he had chosen to do with his life made a real difference. He leaned down and kissed her cheek, letting her hug him tightly for a minute.

It wasn't easy on her.

She had already lost his father, and knowing that every goodbye with her only child might be the last one had aged her prematurely. He wished it could have been different. That he could have obliged her by becoming an astronaut, or a Mountie or a hundred other things that would have made her proud and kept the anxiety from lining her face.

But he was doing this for her.

Her and every other mother that might be in danger of losing a husband or a child to something vile and vicious. There just were not enough hunters in this world. It took a certain kind of person. A certain content of character. You needed to be willing to sacrifice everything, every day, for strangers. Knowing that this life only ended one way, and making your peace with that.

Hopefully, by the end of his time, whenever that was, he could leave knowing that he made the world a better place than it would have been without him. It was because of someone like him that he was still here at all, and when a life altering event like happens, you needed to heed the call and pay it forward.

It was still snowing lightly. The forecast had predicted icy road conditions for almost the entirety of his eight hour journey. But he had faith in his Jeep. It was a trusty car when it wasn't around for his mother to tinker with, and he needed to make this trip. There was someone he needed to pay back, and hopefully what he was doing today would be a start.

/

Contrary to Dean's words this morning, Kristin had not, in fact, been even remotely understanding when Sam told her that he wouldn't be able to take her to Smith's party.

As the day progressed, she was determined to make him change his mind, and by the time he went to his locker to collect everything he would need to take home for the night, his ears were bleeding from her increasingly upset insistence.

Even the offer to take her out on Saturday, anywhere she wanted to go for evening, and Sam more than willing to break into his cash reserves to pay for something extra special, had not smoothed things over. When she refused his goodbye kiss and turned on her heel and stomped away from him, her gaggle of girlfriends shooting him hostile glares, he banged his head against the locker and cursed his family of wardens.

Dean would have been able to go, he knew without a doubt.

Mostly because Dad never really asked where his oldest son spent his evenings away when their father was actually with them. John gave Dean his first fake ID when he was sixteen, allowing him to hustle in places a hell of a lot scarier than the well appointed Greek Revival of the Harris family.

Sam had seen his brother come home bloody and bruised after getting jumped by marks that didn't have a sense of humor about losing their money.

Right about now, Sam was choking on the double standards being shoved down his throat.

If that wasn't more proof that his father thought less of his capabilities than he thought of Dean's, then Sam didn't know what would be. No matter how hard Sam trained, or how many hours he spent tracking down translations and archaic texts to help with hunts, he realized that he would never be the equal of his older brother in their father's eyes.

On one hand, he supposed he should be happy about that fact. If Dad wasn't counting on him to be as much of an asset to the family business, then he probably wouldn't even care that Sam was going to leave and go to college.

Dean was already waiting for him at the curb, and it took everything Sam had in him to climb in the car and keep his mouth closed. Unable to trust himself to be civil with his pig headed older brother, he opted for silence, and after a few attempts by Dean to start a casual conversation, eventually he just left Sam alone.

The hostile undercurrent of Sam's temper didn't improve during their daily sparring session. While Dean had already planned on pushing his little brother into expending some of his pent up frustration in a productive and educational manner, he soon realized that Sam wasn't interested in pulling his punches today. Only the sharper and more instinctual reflexes of the older brother prevented him from getting a broken nose on more than one occasion.

Dad had thrown a mat down in the basement in an empty area off to the side from where his bed and work station sat. South Dakota had too much cold weather to allow for outdoor PT in the winter months. The boys fought and grappled and tumbled on the mat for almost thirty minutes, building up heavy pools of sweat and pushing oxygen deprived aching muscles.

Sam was like a raging bull, but even his will and own impressive skills were not enough to get the drop on his older brother.

After the third time Dean almost found himself eating a fist sandwich, he decided he'd had enough. He pinned Sam to the mat, and finally let his full strength take over. Sam roared and bucked like a rampaging elephant, but his struggles were unproductive. He might be gaining inches on Dean, but Dean was still the big brother in their house and he was just done with the bullshit attitude that had been thrown at him since before the sun rose.

With both of Sam's arms stretched taut behind his back, held in place by one of Dean's hands and a knee, and Dean's other hand pushing the side of Sam's face painfully into the mat, the younger boy finally grunted his concession and tapped out.

Dean was trying. God knows he was. Right now Sam was lucky that his big brother loved him, because what Dean really wanted was to punch Sam in the face until he got over himself and dealt with disappointment.

After Sam's less than sportsman like conduct in the basement, he even let the kid order his favorite pizza for dinner in lieu of eating whatever resulted from his big brother's latest foray in the kitchen. Not that Dean's cooking was terrible. He was getting better every day, but there was definitely a learning curve still going on with their stove at night.

Sam's piss poor attitude didn't actually warrant the right to be allowed out at all, quite frankly and, for a split second, his brother considered grounding his ass and making him stay home for the night until he accepted that being a little bitch didn't get you what you want in life.

Then his blood pressure lowered, giving a chance for his annoyance to ebb away and realize that Sam's irritation over not getting to indulge in some normal teenage mischief was, in some small way, an understandable reaction.

He dropped Sam off at his friend Michael's house, with a reminder that he would return for him at nine, and tried not to be offended when the kid didn't even bother to say goodbye.

/

Harvelle's Roadhouse was just a small beat up little dive. It sat somewhere in the neighborhood of central Bumfuck, Nebraska, far away from the main streets and prying eyes of the world of civilians. You wouldn't even give it a second glance if you were to stumble across it by accident. The weather beaten wood siding and partially boarded up windows screamed Go Away to the casual onlooker.

To the hunting community, it was neutral ground.

A place for exchanging information with others in The Life, without fearing for your own. Run by Ellen Harvelle, widow of the man who built it, there were strict rules in place about what kind of behavior was allowed within the walls. Ellen was tough, and handy with a pistol, and there were many fearless men and women who would rather tangle with a pack of chupacabra than face down the barrel of Mrs. Harvelle's gun.

Inside was significantly more welcoming than the exterior. The hardwood floor was scuffed beyond repair by numerous brawls, when eager beaver novice hunters took it upon themselves to start fights they couldn't finish, but it was still good quality. There was a large wrap around bar with comfortably worn leather stools, and clean taps that poured generous pints of PBR.

Various tables were spread around the main room, with a pool table off to the side. You could hustle in the Roadhouse, if you were of a mind, but if you were expecting to profit from your efforts, you were going to be disappointed. Anyone you chanced to challenge was guaranteed to be better than you. Mostly the games were just for practice. A way for the hunters to hone their skills in fleecing the marks they met during their travels.

You also had to be careful of the proprietress' teenage daughter Jo, who would cheerfully relieve you of your cash if you were foolish enough to challenge her in cards or the aging video games in the corner.

When the young hunter enters, the atmosphere is lively. It's the evening, and the roads are becoming impassable. No one is in any hurry to leave, and the beer is flowing freely. He sits himself at a corner table, back to the wall out of habit, and scans his surroundings.

These hunters are not his usual comrades in arms. Since he generally keeps himself north of the lower forty-eight, he has his own trusted circle of contacts and sources. Hunters tended to keep to their own territories if they could, although they would travel thousands of miles for a case if the situation required it. One can never be too careful in unfamiliar territory.

Especially with this group.

When the front door opens, about ten minutes after his own arrival, it's as if the entire joint freezes up. The lull in conversation is so unnaturally sudden that it startles him, and he finds himself tensing defensively even as he darts his eyes over to the entry to see what has them so on edge.

The man walking in is tall, broad in the shoulders, but lean. The young hunger doubts there is an ounce of fat on him. His face is unreadable, but his dark eyes track every single movement in the entire place. He says nothing. Makes no aggressive movements, but there is a foreboding sense of menace surrounding him. The vibes he is giving off are warning anyone with half a brain cell to steer far clear of his path.

The young hunter doesn't know if it's fear, respect or disdain, but the other bar patrons keep their mouths closed and avert their eyes as the newcomer saunters over to the bar. The entire crowd seems decidedly uncomfortable, and a few even pack up and take off as discretely as they can, weather be damned.

The tall man heads straight for Ellen and, for the briefest of seconds, his face drops its mask of blatant intimidation and softens. They don't speak, but she reaches out and gently presses her hand to the top of the one he has placed on the bar. A few heartbeats pass, and then she is jutting her chin in the direction of the young hunter himself. He finds that he is not surprised that his presence here this evening has been broadcast to the Roadhouse's inner circle.

He's not without his own reputation.

The tall man reaches the young hunters table, stern and projecting a sense of power and strength that exceeds his already impressive form. They spend a minute sizing each other up. These are two men known to face the demon world head on and neither is a shrinking violet. Neither of them is willing to be the first that blinks either, because to do so would be a sign of weakness. Eventually, they come to an unspoken mutual respect. The older man takes a seat across the table and leans back, nodding his head in acknowledgment and unnecessarily introduces himself.

"John Winchester."

The young hunter takes the offered olive branch and goes one step further, extending his hand in greeting.

"Asa Fox."

/

It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

When Sam arrives at Michael's house, he joins Michael and two other study buddies in the well appointed family room where books are already spread out in every direction on the large wooden table off to the side. Normally, there are eight of them that routinely gather together to share notes and quiz one another in various subjects. Sam knows, without asking, that the other four are at the party where he himself is longing to be.

Less than twenty minutes into their study session, it is clear that Sam's mind is elsewhere, and his less than helpful participation is becoming a distraction to the others. Realizing that they will not be getting any productive work done this evening, Michael finally suggests that they just give up even trying and head to the party that they all secretly want to attend.

Sam knows he shouldn't. Knows that he has rules to obey, and trust that he should not abuse.

While his father is heavy handed and firm, his brother goes out of his way to fight for Sam to have what he wants when it's truly important. Dean doesn't demand much out of Sam for everything his big brother does for him. All he asks is for Sam to follow the rules and keep out of trouble.

If Dean was the least bit comfortable with Sam being at the Harris home, he would have gone to the mat with their dad to get permission for tonight.

That knowledge alone should stop Sam cold.

But he's been in a heightened state of agitation for a few weeks now, for no real reason other than he has a girlfriend for the first time, and she makes demands on him that he's never had to accommodate before. He wants to accommodate her. Enjoys having her on his arm as they walk through the halls, and drink ridiculously expensive coffees that make them feel sophisticated and mature while hanging out with the popular kids.

Sam's not shallow, but he's also never been popular before either, and it's not a feeling that he is willing to give up just yet by disappointing her.

Michael's parents are out for the evening. They will never even know that the kids are not at their house where they are supposed to be, and Sam has a discomforting thought about how that little fact would make his brother go ape shit crazy if he knew. Michael has his own car, and before Sam knows it, they are all piling in and heading downtown. Michael assures him that they will only stay for an hour or so, and that Sam will be back at the house in plenty of time for Dean to pick him up.

Easy.

The streets are icy, so Michael drives slow and carefully, because he's a responsible kid and a conscientious driver. It takes longer than expected to get to the house, and they can hear the music from two blocks away emanating from it. They have to park a good distance away, because it really does seem that the entire school has decided to swing by.

The interior is utter chaos. It's wall to wall bodies, and there is a lot of intimately close contact as Sam and company attempt to squeeze their way through. He scans each room as they push along, looking for Kristin, but so far doesn't see her anywhere. One of his soccer teammates tries to push a plastic cup of beer in his hand and he politely refuses. All he needs is for Dean to smell alcohol on his breath. The jig would be up pretty quick.

Michael settles in one of the less crowded sitting rooms, along with Taylor and Nathalie, the other two that showed to study group. They have joined some of the other regular members that are already seated, and Taylor makes a space for Sam on the couch, but he smiles and indicates that he is going to keep searching for Kristin farther in.

There is a heavy cloud of cigarette smoke, mixed with the sweet tang of marijuana permeating the air of the house. Sam cringes, realizing that this does not bode well for his ability to keep his brother from detecting them on his clothes. While he would never touch a joint, Dean has once, and has been subjected to the second hand smoke of it on more than one occasion. There's not much chance he won't recognize that particular odor.

It's at that point that he knows he's already busted. There go his Saturday plans with Kristin.

There's a full bar set up in the rec room, and clearly Smith has spared no expense. There are shelves filled with top brands of spirits, and no less than three tapped kegs with huge stacks of plastic cups lined up at the sides. The windows are vibrating with the heavy bass being pumped out of the crystal clear sound system, and the room is filled with a mob of scantily clad teenagers dancing and rubbing against each other in lusty gyrations.

Pushing aside the worrisome knowledge that his brother's wrath is now inescapable, Sam decides that if he's in for a penny, he's in for a pound, and when the next person pumps a cup of beer from the keg and passes it over, he takes it and downs half, already sweating from the heat generated from the sheer number of bodies crowded into the house and a furnace that is apparently working on full bore to ward off the winter chill.

He's still wandering from room to room when his head starts to buzz. Not from the beer, he knows, because occasionally Dean, and even sometimes their dad, will let him have a couple after a successful hunt. Sam can handle his beer just fine. The marijuana smoke is a new entity, and it's not treating him kindly. He doesn't think he's getting high exactly, although he has one killer of a headache building.

He's back in the part of the house where the crowd is thickest and, with his eyes going glassy, starts feeling claustrophobic. He pushes at a door to his side, mistaking it for the one to the rec room in an effort to get back to his friends. When it falls open, he realizes that he has stumbled across a darkened bedroom that is clearly already in use by some enthusiastic attendees from the sounds he hears coming from the bed.

Embarrassed, he begins to mutter an apology and turns to let himself back out, and it's then that he sees who the bed's occupants are.

Kristin is the first to recognize him, and while Sam is standing in shock in the doorway, she struggles to pull the sheets up to cover her bare breasts. Her face is red and she looks like she is about to burst into tears. Next to her, Trenton sits up, unashamed of his own nudity, more than happy to lay there with a sheen of sweat glistening off of his bulging muscles. There's a cruel smirk on his face and his eyes dare Sam to do or say something about what he's just stumbled across.

For a second, Sam allows himself to feel the pain of hurt and betrayal, before schooling his features to the scary neutral mask that he has inherited from his father. With a malicious sneer, he moves to close the door, throwing the couple one last parting shot.

"Don't let me interrupt."

He shuts the door behind him and heads back to the bar.

If he stops and thinks for a second, he will have to deal with the fact that his ego is crushed and his heart is potentially breaking. Not because he's necessarily in love with Kristin, but because for years he has been in love with the idea of her. Those lonely high school years before his time at Holy Rosary, when all he wanted was to be a normal kid, with a pretty girlfriend and comfortable place in the social hierarchy.

That's pretty much gone right now, and he's one part distressed and four parts enraged. No longer thinking clearly, he goes to the bar and snags two bottles of Jack. He's not stopped. There is no one behind the bar to tend it and the booze is veritably a free-for-all.

Michael and the girls stare at the craziness in his eyes when he reaches them again. He's already swigging directly from the neck of one of the bottles. He's had Jack before. His own father has given it to him to dull the pain of injuries.

And he is definitely in pain right now. Who says the pain has to be physical to earn him the right to some liquor? Dad has no trouble using an alcoholic crutch to deal with his hurt, after all.

Michael stands up and approaches him, as one would an injured lion that you don't want to spook.

"Sam, are you okay, man?"

"Fan-fucking-tastic," Sam replies cheerfully, as he takes another pull. He offers the bottle to Michael, but it's refused.

"Did you find Kristin?"

Michael is trying to ferret out the reason why Sam has gone on a quick bender, and realizes his mistake as soon as a flash of hurt flickers in Sam's eyes. It's gone an instant later, and the cruel hardness returns, changing Sam into someone that Michael doesn't know, and it's more than a little scary.

Sam smiles, but it's a cold smile, and Michael feels an involuntary shudder pass through him.

"Oh, yeah," he says, almost conversationally. "She's in one of the bedrooms fucking Trenton. Drink?"

That news has Michael blinking fast, and he realizes that he needs to get his friend away from this place. He refuses the offer of the Jack and quietly suggests that they just leave. Taylor and Nathalie have also been drinking, against his advice, and he would really prefer that they all just go home before something else bad happens.

When Michael gently pries the unopened bottle from Sam's hand, he hears Sam pull in a stuttering breath, as if he is close to breaking into tears. Sam doesn't fight him when Michael collects their coats and begins to steer Sam and the girls out to the car.

The snow is falling heavier at this point, and it's a precarious walk down the sidewalk. Their footsteps are muffled by the flakes already covering the ground, and the only sound is the occasional swallow that Sam takes from the bottle he still has. Michael doesn't fight him for that one, and is almost semi-relieved when the girls begin to share it. Taking small sips and dumping some out when Sam isn't looking.

It takes some time, but eventually they make it to the car and pile in. Sam folds himself into the back with Nathalie, while Taylor takes the front passenger seat. Michael asks him to cap the bottle, and Sam still has the decency to do as his friend asks.

Sam's head is spinning and he's desperately fighting back tears of frustration and hurt, while a knot of anger and betrayal begin to burn in the pit of his stomach. He ignores the others in the car, not paying any attention to the worried glances Michael keeps sneaking at him in the rear view mirror.

He barely even realizes what is happening when the car hits a patch of black ice and careens into a pole.

/

Dean has a smile on his face a mile wide as he puts the finishing touches on Sammy's Camaro. With any luck, she will be done tonight, although he's not in any hurry to rush it. He's taken his time with this one, wanting nothing but the best for his kid brother.

Sam has no idea how many times their father has swung by during the last month to help Dean rebuild her. John has even stayed with Bobby a few nights, because they know Sam will be suspicious to have Dad at home with that kind of frequency without a plausible explanation. Dean has loved every minute of the time spent with his Dad, shoulder to shoulder as they work.

Even with John's habitual sharp criticisms and rebukes over less than stellar technique it doesn't dampen the joy Dean finds from learning at his father's side.

They have poured their hearts and souls into creating something beautiful for their youngest, and Dean is almost sorry now that he agreed with his father to wait until Christmas to hand the keys over to Sam.

Maybe with something fun in his life right now, little brother can stop being such an asshole.

Dean's no stranger to Sam's surly attitude and constantly fluctuating moods. It's Dad all over again.

Live and in technicolor in his lookalike son.

Of course, Dean didn't experience John as a teenager, but he suspects that his father was just as mercurial and short tempered as his little brother has been lately. Fortunately, Dean is all too well versed in handling a moody dark haired Winchester, and he knows that he will be employing some tried and true methods of keeping Sam's emotional turbulence in a manageable range.

The interior of the garage is warm from the three space heaters that Bobby has placed strategically around the car. Dean needs dry heat for the work he's doing tonight, but he's starting to sweat a little. He straightens from where he has been hunched at the rear bumper and stretches, pulling a knot from the tight muscles in his back after their exceptionally aggressive workout earlier.

He looks out one of the garage windows and sees the snowy conditions and gives thought to the brilliance of letting Sam have a car right in the middle of winter. The kid can drive, but neither Dad nor Dean have ever really let him take the wheel in bad weather. Dean sees a few weeks of practice driving, with himself firmly in the passenger seat to navigate and instruct, in Sam's near future.

He works for a while longer, until it's time to leave to pick Sam up from his friend's house. With the snowy roads in mind, he decides to give himself a head start. He doesn't mind sitting outside and waiting for a while until the kid is ready to come home. Lord knows, the less he has to talk with his bitchy brother tonight, the better.

Hopefully Sam will wake up on the right side of the bed tomorrow morning.

Gliding the car smoothly through light traffic, he arrives at Michael's house a few minutes early. He shuts the car off and settles in to wait. The interior is still warm and he's comfortable. If it begins to cool off, he could always turn her back on, but Dean's not delicate like that. He can take a little chill for a while.

He throws AC/DC in the cassette slot and turns the key to auxiliary. The strains of Highway to Hell filter through the speakers and he leans back in his seat, closing his eyes and relaxing. It's been a really long day and he's tired. All he wants is to get Sammy home, have a beer and a hot shower, and hit the rack.

Comfortable, he drifts, falling into a light sleep without realizing it. It's a dreamless REM cycle, and when something finally breaches his unconsciousness and he surfaces, it takes a second to get his bearings. The car is far colder than it should be after just a brief time sitting, and in the tape deck the sound of side B's Love Hungry Man is just finishing up. With a start he realizes how much time has passed, and that Sammy has not woken him with the sound of the passenger door opening.

He blinks rapidly, reflexive and offensive instincts kicking, until he hears the familiar opening bars of Smoke on the Water vibrating in his coat pocket. He digs for his phone and snaps it open, relieved when the caller ID shows Sammy's name. He pushes the talk button, ready to snap at his little brother for being so late.

"Sammy, where the hell are you, man? I want to get home."

"Dean. I'm in trouble."

/

Sam's mind is black for a while. The first conscious sensation he feels is a dull, thudding pain above his right eye. As he struggles for coherent thought, a warm sluggish trickle of liquid snakes its way into the corner of his eye and he lifts his hand to push it out of his vision.

It takes a few seconds to realize where he is, and it's only because he can hear Taylor crying softly in the seat in front of him that he finally understands that they have been involved in an accident. His father's training kicks in without hesitation, and he immediately starts an assessment of his own physical condition so that he can assist the others.

Other than an ache in his head, which he is fairly sure is a mild concussion, and beginnings of the bruises he can feel from the impact, he seems to be unhurt. Next to him, Nathalie is still unconscious, her face hanging down to her chest. Sam can see a smear of blood on the window next to her. Michael is hunched over the steering wheel's airbag, but he is groaning softly and Sam feels a wave of relief that his friend is still breathing.

His mind is still muddled from the Jack and the marijuana contact high, but response to trauma is ingrained into his very DNA after years in the Winchester Army. He looks around for landmarks, finds a familiar intersection and grabs his phone. He dials 911, and proceeds to give a very calm explanation of what has happened and what their approximate location is before hanging up. The dispatcher had wanted to keep him on the line, but Sam knows he needs the freedom to triage his friends' injuries, and he can't do that with a phone in one hand.

Releasing himself from his own seat belt, he checks Nathalie for a pulse and finds one strong and steady. There is a sticky clump of blood clotting on the left side of her temple, but otherwise she seems unharmed. He pulls the clean handkerchief that Dean insists he always carry on him, and uses it to staunch the flow of blood.

Needing to see to the others, Sam gets out of the car and runs around to the front, doing what he can to assist Michael first, and then runs around to the other side to help Taylor. In the distance, he can hear the wail of sirens, and he takes a moment to wipe away another stream off blood from his own face that hasn't slowed down.

Help is on the way, and the adrenaline spike that has kept Sam on his feet and moving suddenly plummets. He sways a little and barely manages to drop back into his own seat before the ambulance and police cruiser come screeching to a halt next to them.

/

The minute Sam saw his brother stride into the emergency room, he felt a strange and immediate mixture of relief and fear.

Relief that his big brother would help him out of whatever mess he had gotten himself into, and fear that once he did, Dean might just decide that it was more fun to kill him himself. His brother makes his way over to him quickly, worry oozing out of every pore as he gives Sam a thorough once over to make sure that the kid was in one piece.

"Are you okay, Sammy?"

Dean's voice was calm, controlled. Low volume that belied his panic over his little brother being injured. He reaches out and cups Sam's face in his hands, tilting his little brother's head slightly so he can examine the wound on his forehead. It's nothing serious.

Sam nods jerkily, unable to find his voice, his state of anxiety still running high over the uncertainty of what was going to happen to him. The surge of adrenaline that has been pumping hard through his veins since the car's impact has returned over the uncertainty of exactly how much trouble he is in.

Dean stared at him for a moment, as if trying to reassure himself that Sam's non-verbal response was not an indication of a more serious problem than the one at hand. He whips out his own penlight, checking Sam's pupils, and comforts himself that they show no indication of a concussion. While Sam has a bandage above his eye, the injury seems superficial.

He reached out to give the trembling teen a quick comforting pat on the shoulder before straightening back up and heading over to where Taylor's father is gathered with the two responding police officers.

If Sam was feeling comforted by his brother's presence, it's short lived. During the conversation with the officers, Dean's face has gone strangely red, a lot like their father's did when he was furious. Sam doesn't need to hear the conversation to know what his brother was being told.

Taylor's father was the first to arrive at the ER, since his daughter was coherent enough to call him from the ambulance. A locally well known attorney, he took immediate control of the situation, once he was assured that his daughter was okay. At the hospital, he is given the run down by the responding officers, and it immediately kicks his personal and professional interest into high gear.

All the kids are fine. Banged up and bruised, but fine. Nathalie has a mild concussion, and will need overnight observation, but the rest are okay to go home. It's a no-fault accident, given the road conditions and no evidence that Michael was speeding.

The smell of whiskey in the car, and the half empty bottle rolling around in the foot well of the rear seat is enough cause to give all four kids a breathalyzer. The driver is the only one who hasn't been drinking, luckily for him. All the others blow levels over the legal limit for adults which, clearly, they are not.

Technically, all three passengers are under arrest for underage drinking. Taylor's father manages to convince the officers to release them into the custody of their parents. His friend is the D.A., and there is a conference call placed right at the nurses station to keep the whole thing as casual and friendly as possible.

Dean darts quickly back to the car for a second and retrieves a copy of the guardianship papers he keeps in the glove box for emergency purposes. He's thankful at that moment for his father's drilled in insistence of always being prepared.

When he rejoins the conversation, Taylor's father informs him that he has come to a gentleman's agreement with the DA. If the kids and their parents appear in court next week and pay a fine, the misdemeanor underage drinking charge will be dropped to a citation offense of disorderly conduct. One that will go away in ninety days.

An incredibly fair offer under the circumstances, and only under consideration because of the lack of injuries and property damage.

Sam sat fidgeting in his seat, watching his brother grow increasingly more red in the face until Dean turned towards him and shot him such a heated glare that Sam was sure they would not need accelerant for their next salt and burn. His brother's rage would be more than enough fuel to get the job done.

For his part, Dean was having trouble believing what he was hearing. Sam was just not the kind of kid that got himself into trouble like this. He had always been the goody-good little bookworm that stayed at home and studied, keeping his head down and not causing waves, unless it was to mouth off to their father.

For some reason, his little brother had always had a talent for that. But otherwise, Sam never behaved this way, and Dean was not thrilled with the new personality.

He wasn't quite sure what to make of the kid finding a carelessly rebellious streak this late in the game of his teen years. With a small pang of discomfort in his stomach, he had to wonder if it was because their father wasn't around as much to keep him in check.

Sure, Sam could go thirteen rounds in vocal battles with John before crossing the line that ended up getting his ass handed to him, but he was never actually foolish enough to set out and cause trouble that would get them noticed. Sam was certainly smart enough to know just how much wrath would be rained down upon him if he had.

Glancing over at the kid, Dean could see that Sam was practically to the point of hyperventilation. Sighing deeply in frustration, he turned his attention back to the matter at hand. There would be plenty of time to rip Sammy a new one on the way home.

His kid brother is okay. He'd probably have a monster hangover in the morning, along with an additional layer of headache from the bump above his eye, but he was otherwise okay. That was the important thing.

Dean shakes Taylor's father's hand, genuinely appreciative of all the man has done to keep Sam out of real trouble. The gratitude is returned, and the relieved father details how Dean's little brother was the one responsible for getting them medical attention so quickly and caring for them until the cavalry arrived.

Through all of this, Sam has not uttered a sound, even when his brother grabs him, none too gently, under the arm and yanks him to his feet. He grasps Sam's bicep with a vice-like grip and drags him out the door and into the car.

The first few minutes of the drive back to the house are tense. Dean is too angry to speak coherently and Sam just doesn't know how to explain what he did to his brother. He is crushed with guilt over acting so recklessly and thoughtlessly, never mind the overwhelming embarrassment of having to admit that it was all over a girl. Dean wouldn't understand that kind of awkward behavior. He has been attracting the fairer sex like bees to honey Sam's entire life.

In the car with his brother, Sam keeps his head down, waiting for the inevitable storm to be unleashed. His temper put his friends in danger as they tried to help him, he's embarrassed by the knowledge that everyone at school tomorrow is going to hear how his girlfriend got caught banging her ex, he has disobeyed his father's rules and pissed off his big brother.

Yeah, there have been better days in his life.

He doesn't have to wait long for the explosion. Before they are even over town lines, Dean slams his hands on the steering wheel, his quest for patience at an end.

"What the hell, Sam!"

Dean's hands are stinging where he hit them on the Impala's steering wheel. He hadn't meant to lose his cool like that, but god damn it! What is going on in that head of his brother's? He swears that the kid is just clueless.

"Do you even know what could have happened to you tonight?"

His voice is hard and raspy. It's not really a question, more like an accusation. He looks over and sees Sam's face blush an even deeper red than it has already been and the sight of this tempers his anger a little.

Dean reaches up with his right hand and rubs his face tiredly. He doesn't want to do this, doesn't want to play bad cop. He knows his brother well enough to see how upset Sam is and reminds himself that it's the kid's first time in real trouble.

Sam is determinedly staring straight ahead and Dean knows his brother's moods well enough to know that the kid is struggling to keep it together. He reminds himself again that Sam is unhurt, that the accident could have been so much worse and, as much as he doesn't like it, this will all be over as soon as the two-fifty in court fines is paid. He has the money set aside. It might make for a leaner Christmas than he wanted to have, but that's okay.

He can't delude himself into thinking that they can keep this away from their father. Dean would never dream of doing such a thing. Sam is John's son and he has every right to know what has happened tonight. It's not going to be a pleasant conversation, he knows. Their father is going to tear into Dean up one side and back down the other for being foolish enough to let his kid brother pull one over on him.

The unpleasant reality of this fact stings him, re-igniting his earlier anger over his brother's intentional duplicity in breaking the rules. Dean has stuck his neck out to allow Sam a little more freedom than he should have had, and this is how the little brat repays him.

"What were you thinking, Sam?" he demands, the irritation that he has been forcing himself to repress for the past hour edging its way out of him in full force. "I trusted you to be where you told me you would be."

In truth, Sam doesn't know how to answer that question. What was he thinking? He's never been the kind of person to act recklessly like that. Has always been the one to reprove his big brother when Dean took unnecessary risks to his own safety.

Not only that, but he has really abused his friendship with Michael, who was hurt and now has a wrecked car because he was trying to make Sam happy. Michael and his parents have been really nice to Sam. Now he doesn't know if the friendship is even salvageable, and that thought pains him.

"I'm waiting for an answer here, kiddo," Dean scolds in a voice that sounds suspiciously close to their father's tone and Sam can feel himself bristle from it out of sheer habit.

He finds himself forgetting that the person on the other end of this stunted conversation is the brother that has always given a hundred and ten percent of himself, and not the constantly absent father that Sam can't stop himself from treating with hostility because it's easier than admitting how much he misses him when he's gone.

Sam huffs in annoyance, reminds himself of all of the trouble that his brother got into during his teen years and can't repress the hurt feelings that his brother is being a hypocrite.

"You've done worse," he mutters, mentally deluding himself into thinking that his words are not loud enough to be heard.

Dean's hearing, however, is just fine and he has no trouble either in picking up the words or the underlining petulance behind them. He is more than a little perturbed by the nerve of his little brother attempting to throw Dean's teen mischief in his face at a time like this.

Dean may not have been an angel, but his exploits were few and far between, and most of his youthful indiscretions were either to work the job or keep his brother fed and housed. When he was Sam's age, Dean had much healthier fears of John's temper and his belt, both of which were overpowered by Dean's almost paralyzing fear of his father's disappointment. Topping that off with his blind devotion to his little brother's safety and well being and it didn't make for much opportunity to run amok.

"I never said I was perfect, Sammy," he warned in a low growl as he fought to keep calm, "but this...I don't know what this was. I trusted you. And you just did what you wanted to anyway, without giving a shit."

Sam bit down on the inside of his cheek at the reprimand. He knew that he had broken faith with his brother. That Dean had every right to tear a few strips off of him for doing so. He's crippled with the guilt of knowing just how hard Dean has worked to give him everything they have right now, and it's all he can do to keep the flood of embarrassing tears threatening behind his eyes at bay.

Sam's refusal to speak any further is grating on Dean's last nerve and he is thisclose to completely losing it. His ass is on the line now with their father too, and he is not real happy about it. He grits his teeth in frustration knowing that he is going to do what he always does, and that is whatever it takes to minimize the fallout for his little brother.

He's run interference for Sammy the kid's entire life, and he is not about to stop now, especially since Dean is not a child anymore and there is little that John can actually do to him outside the blistering reprimand that is surely in his future.

He runs his hand through his cropped hair and lets out a deep cleansing sigh before throwing the kid another glare. Sam is still determinedly keeping his jaw set, but Dean knows that the kid is probably drowning inside.

"You don't want to talk about it, fine. We'll get this all straightened out," he finally says, hoping that the words bring more comfort than they sound.

"But this is the last time something like this happens, Sam," he warns firmly. "If I can't trust you, you're grounded until you get your head out of your ass. Maybe in a couple of weeks you can have your friends come over to study if Dad says it's okay, but you aren't leaving the house."

These words slam into Sam like a tidal wave and he turns a furious stare over onto his brother. It's part vicious pang that Michael and the others may not even want to hang out with him anymore and part annoyance at Dean treating him like a child and putting him on lock down like Dad does. He forgets his own actions of the evening and burns in a rage.

"You have no right to do that, Dean," he hisses, as his temper flares. "You're not Dad, you know."

Dean's annoyance trumps Sam's. The kid just does not know when to quit while he's ahead. Dean knows that if he can persuade John that he has already handled the situation, there is a slim chance that his father won't murder his brother for his little venture in juvenile delinquency, and he is trying to do him a kindness here. He brings the car to a complete stop in the empty road and puts her in park.

"You're right, Sammy," he seethes, his teeth clenched. "If I was Dad? You'd be bent over the hood of the car right now getting your ass whipped."

Dean holds Sam's stare until the boy finally turns away. His little brother knows that what he just said is entirely true. John has exactly zero patience for this kind of defiance and he has never hesitated to demonstrate it to either of his sons.

After Dean starts driving again, the rest of the trip home is completely silent. Dean finds himself wondering how long it's going to take for all of this to blow over and whether or not it will before he gives his little brother a serious beat down.

When they get back to the house, it is already late in the evening. Both of them are tired, cold and weary. Sam shuffles into the living room, carelessly tossing his backpack on the couch as he waits for his brother to come in behind him. He's already regretting the attitude that he gave Dean in the car and wants to clear the air a little.

It's just like it is with his father. Sam knows that he royally messed up this evening, but he just finds himself getting so angry at being treated like a child all the time by his father and brother that he lashes out. Mostly, it is John who bears the brunt of his angst. Sam is usually so wrapped up in being mad at his father that Dean is forever trying to make him feel better, and Sam is ashamed of the way he has spoken to his brother tonight.

Dean stomps in behind him, his jaw still clenched and Sam winces slightly. He opens his mouth to break the ice, but his brother beats him to the punch.

"You heard what I said, Sam," he snaps, holding his hand up to prevent more conversation. "Go to your room and get to bed. It's late and you have school in the morning."

Dean had not meant to sound unkind or like he was issuing an order. He was just drop dead exhausted, bleeding tension and truthfully tired of his little brother's crap. Just wanting this whole night to be over already, and the words come out a bit more harsh than he had intended.

Unfortunately, Sam does not know this and his own roller coaster of emotions starts spinning wildly again.

"Screw you, Dean," he spits out, hurt. "Stop trying to tell me what to do!"

Sam had turned around and was holding a firm offensive stance, staring down his brother, and Dean was more than a little taken aback by his reaction. His mouth is frozen open, like a fish sucking for water, wondering again what the hell just happened to set off Sam's unpredictable temper

Sam mistakes the incredulous look on his brother's face for condescension, and every teenage hackle in his body gets raised in fury. His voice is practically dripping in venom and Dean gets his first taste of the dark streak in his little brother that will wreak havoc upon them as adults years later.

"You just love the fact that you now have legal authority over me," Sam spits out, with a malicious glint blazing in his eyes, and the words come out with a bitterness that has clearly been building over time.

"No matter how much you want to be, Dean, you are not Dad!" Sam growls, his face ablaze. "You're just his obedient little soldier, so stop pretending that you are my father, and stop telling me how to live my life!"

That line of vicious assault is apparently not enough in Sam's blurred mind to get his point across and, without sobriety to filter the shit from his mouth, he takes his assault one step further.

"You're only cool with letting my friends come here because you're just jealous you don't have any of your own and want mine. Why don't you stop sticking yourself in my social life and get one for yourself. Or are you really so pathetic that you can't manage it?"

When the words are out of Sam's mouth, he immediately feels sick. It was as if someone else had taken over his body and spoken vile, unforgivable things, leaving him powerless to stop it. But he knows that it's not true. He's himself and he alone is responsible for putting that devastated look on his adored big brother's face.

Dean's face has gone almost completely white and the poison that has spilled from his kid brother's mouth has hit him harder than a kick to the gut. The critically low level of self esteem that he possesses has taken a mortal hit, and he is finding it hard to breathe. He feels himself drowning in the memory of what it felt like to be on the receiving end of his father's anger and disapproving looks after the Shtriga and Flagstaff fiascoes, Sammy looking uncomfortably similar to a young John Winchester.

Sam wants to say something, anything, to convince his brother how sorry he is, for everything that has gone on this terrible evening but, like a large cosmic joke, words spectacularly fail the boy that can always find something to say. He can't manage to do anything other than stare at the havoc of his brother's slumped posture as he struggles to catch a breath.

Dean has allowed himself several seconds of pain before he follows form and pushes it deep down inside.

He can't even look at his brother right now and, to prove it, he stomps up the stairs to his own room and slams the door shut with such force that the ancient window panes in the kitchen rattle. Sam watches him storm out, his heart dropping into his stomach, and when the door slams with such violent finality, he sinks to the couch and buries his face in his hands as he tries to breath.

/

If there was ever a time in his life to bury himself in the bottom of a bottle, it would be right now.

He doesn't know what kind of look he had on his face that must have prompted Ellen to take pity on him enough to let him crash in the bunkhouse out back. After hearing everything that Fox had to say, John's entire world had been rocked to its very foundation, and he wasn't sure that the walls that tumbled down could ever be rebuilt.

He sits on the edge of the narrow single bed with the undeniable photographic proof dangling from uncertain fingers.

There were no doubts that this was his Mary.

It is her long, blonde tresses, carelessly tied back and draped over her shoulder as she was sliding into the car.

Her car.

Her Camaro.

The one that she would take on mysterious trips. Trips she would tell him nothing about, but had always seemed to have such a profound affect on her.

Trips that sometimes left her bruised and scarred, but also managed to lift a small burden from her shoulders.

After all of these years in The Life, and considering himself a meticulously observant man, John couldn't help wondering why the thought had never occurred to him before.

Maybe some smart part of him did suspect. Maybe it was this same part that didn't allow the suspicion to fully surface, unwilling to interfere with John's fervent quest to bring her murderer to justice.

And maybe that same part knew that John might take a pause if he even semi-considered the idea that it was the hunting past of his wife that had brought all of the resulting tragedy down on their family in the first place.

Although, to be fair, even John had to admit that it was unlikely to have altered his course. He had meant it when he told Mary that he didn't care what she had in her past. She could have come out and just been honest with him, and he still would have loved her.

Married her and made babies with her, because he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was the love of his life, and that devotion didn't come with exceptions.

When the demon in Minneapolis had insinuated that she had been the one responsible for that terrible night in the nursery, John dismissed it as the deception of hell spawn. They were gifted artists in creating hurtful artifice when it suited their purposes.

It was only when Singer had contacted him with a story that was so incredible it couldn't possibly be true that he had given it a second thought.

Truthfully, he would have laughed the entire concept away if it hadn't been for that Polaroid. You can fake a lot of photographs, but this one was simply too old and too well worn to discount. He wouldn't admit it, but he had a grudging admiration for Fox.

He had heard of him, from time to time, from other hunters in their community. If he was honest with himself, there was a slight undercurrent of understanding and pride at the thought that Mary had not only saved this young man's life, but by doing so, was also directly responsible for the lives of everyone that Fox himself had saved over the years.

It was a heady thought.

Not that it quelled the anger that was burning inside of him over the havoc it had wrought on his own children.

Ever since John had picked up his first gun and gone out into the world of supernatural evil, he had told his boys that it was their job to save other people. Innocents who didn't have their knowledge and could not protect themselves from what goes bump in the night.

He stood by that now, but he also knew that there was a part of him that would never truly forgive his love for setting himself and their boys on this path from which there was no return to a civilian life. His children had deserved better. They should have had their chance at a happy home life where they didn't need to fear the things in the dark.

It was simply too late for that now, but John found himself needing to start balancing out the uneven side of the scale. Dean had been right to settle himself and Sam down for a while. Their road was still stretched out in front of them, but they could take a breath.

For a little while, anyway.

Born to this life, whether they knew it or not, he owed it to his kids to start making it up to them.

/

The tension in the air the next morning is palpable, and Sam is afraid to do or say anything that might aggravate the situation. He desperately wants to apologize, knowing that such emotional overtures make his brother uncomfortable, the task Herculean in size given the measure of the offense.

He is hurt, but honestly not surprised, that Dean has not woken him up this morning with his usual hearty bang on the door and the cheery "Rise and shine, Sammy," that usually makes him groan and smile just a little bit. There is no wake up call this morning, despite the fact that it is well past the time that he and Dean should be taking their morning five mile run.

Normally, Sam would whoop with joy over being excused from the early workout that he despises, but today it just emphasizes the gulf between his brother and himself.

Although he can hear Dean going about his morning routine, there is a disquieting absence of the goofy noises he usually makes. Since they were little, Dean is far too chipper after his first cup of coffee in the morning for Sam's taste. Sam has not really slept at all during the night, and he is weary but wide awake when he hesitantly slinks down the stairs to the kitchen.

Things are off there too, and Sam feels an additional stab of guilt from their conversation the previous morning. Every day of Sam's life, Dean will set a place for his brother at the table, putting out the cereal box or fruit, or muffins. Whatever Sam has been of a mind to eat lately.

This morning, as Sam spots the empty table, a sharp pain of hurt bursts in his chest and he sadly reminds himself that he has demanded that his brother stop treating him like a kid. So, be careful what you wish for, kiddo, because big boys can get their own damn cereal.

Dean is standing at the counter with his back to Sam as he drinks one of several cups of morning coffee. He says nothing as Sam pads slowly over to the cabinet and pulls out the container of granola, trying to catch a surreptitious glance at his brother's face. He wants so badly to talk to him.

"Dean?" he tries, his voice small and hesitant.

His brother doesn't even look at him, so Sam has no idea how much it hurts Dean to hear the sad little tone in his brother's voice. All Sam sees is his brother flinching slightly, right before he dumps the rest of his coffee in the sink and head towards the front door.

"I'm leaving in five minutes, if you still want a ride to school." Dean growls, without turning around.

Sam sucks in a harsh gasp of air at the rebuff and he replaces the granola in the cabinet, any trace of appetite he might have possessed vanishing. Sullenly, he goes into the living room, hoists his backpack on his shoulder and heads out to the car to face the hostile atmosphere of the long drive.

Sam can't seem to summon the courage for another attempt at communication. Taking the coward's way out, he convinces himself that it would just be better to wait until after school to try to apologize. Dean enjoys the work he does at Bobby's and has, on more than one occasion, taken the opportunity to work out anger and frustration on the cars there.

When Dean pulls up to the drop off curb, Sam turns to his brother, wanting no more than to just give him a little smile, a poor but genuine stab at smoothing things over, but Dean is staring straight ahead, his jaw firmly set and unyielding.

"I'll be back at five," Dean says, his tone empty and void of any emotion, and the smile on Sam's face slips completely as he gathers his things.

"Okay. Thanks for the ride."

The words are hard for Sam to get out, his voice weak and trembling. With a heavy heart he slides out of the squeaky heavy door. He barely has the time to close it before Dean guns the engine and tears away at a speed that is much too fast for a school zone. Sam sadly watches him go before trudging towards the door, not looking forward to more fallout from the previous night's events.

/

As Dean speeds away from the school, his head throbs menacingly. He didn't sleep at all during the night, unable to breathe properly from the pain he is feeling. It has always been his way. Since he was a little boy charged with the responsibility of caring for Sam, he has sworn to never let his little brother see him weak.

He has hidden a multitude of hurts and injuries from Sam over the years, physical and mental. He is finding it hard to accept that the overwhelming ache that is smothering him right now has been caused by the person he least expected it from.

From the moment he carried Sam out of the burning house, he has dedicated his life to caring for the boy. It was just an instinct ingrained into his every conscious and subconscious thought. If he is honest with himself, he will admit that part of the job is to be overbearing at times out of necessity. Sam is infuriatingly stubborn by nature, and has truly inherited their father's determination to always do things his own way, regardless of who gets stepped on this process.

He hears Sam's accusations reverberating in his mind."You're not Dad, you know." Dean laughs humorlessly to himself.

Yeah, that's right, Sammy. If I was Dad, your little ass would still be sitting in the emergency room, waiting for someone else to come and take care of you because Dad's deep in a hunt and can't be reached.

He slams his hand on the wheel again in frustration and presses harder on the accelerator, making it to Bobby's in record time. Last night, lying sleeplessly on his bed, he had decided on a course of action and he only has until five to set everything in motion.

/

School is just as difficult as Sam expected it to be.

The school is small and everyone has already heard all of the gossip regarding Kristin's betrayal. Kristin herself is apparently too cowardly to appear today. Trenton is strutting around the cock of the walk, and some of the football players are throwing snide glares in Sam's direction. It's never really sat well with some of them that the new kid managed to score one of the girls the team thinks of as their own.

Neither of the other three involved in the accident have made it in today either, and that's okay because Sam doesn't think he could bear seeing their disapproving faces in the wake of his own troubles with his brother. He spends the day in a distracted haze, game face on to those that are looking to see how he's handling his social fall from grace.

These kids don't really know Sam Winchester. Have no idea that he has been trained from infancy to keep his emotions close to his vest.

When the last bell of the day finally rings, Sam practically jumps out of his chair and makes a beeline for the parking lot. He is relieved to see the Impala making the turn to pull in, and releases a breath he doesn't realize he has been holding. He sprints to their usual meeting place, the familiar growling idle of the muscle car bringing a smile to his face. As he opens the passenger door, he vows to do whatever he can to make things right with his brother.

Without paying attention he slides into the leather bench seat, startled when his hip brushes against something. Looking down to his side, he is momentarily confused to see his go-bag bag resting between him and Dean. He knows that their father has already said they wouldn't be meeting up this weekend, and he's wondering if something has happened.

He looks up at Dean and his brother shoots him a quick glance before returning his stare to the windshield. Confused, he watches his brother take a deep breath before putting the car in gear and pulling out of the lot.

"I talked to Dad this morning," Dean states without any preamble. "He's coming here Tuesday afternoon to go to court with you."

The statement, and the coldness in which it is delivered, stuns Sam. He doesn't know how to respond and, as it turns out, Dean is not waiting for him to do so.

"He's passing a hunt to Caleb after I get there to assist him."

Sam's eyes flare in disbelief. As far as Sam knows, Dad has been holed up with Caleb in Des Moines for the past four days trying to locate the body of a murdered girl that goes on a killing spree every year during this week, and John never leaves a job unfinished. Even more disconcerting is the idea that John would allow Dean to take his place. Dean is rarely allowed to go on a hunt by himself with someone other than their father.

"You're staying with Bobby until he gets here." Dean tells him, still determinedly looking away. "I don't know when I'll be back."

So that's it then.

Dean is now truly following in their father's footsteps. He's off on a hunt, and leaving Sam behind indefinitely. The day that Sam has always feared would come is finally here and it feels like a kick to the head. As much as their father's absence has always hurt, angered and occasionally terrified Sam, there was always the comfort of his big brother's steadfast presence to keep him feeling secure.

Sam doesn't care to remember that he had been planning on ditching his brother back during the summer when all he could think about was his own future, and how traveling with Dean and Dad was going to interfere with that.

Be careful what you wish for, kiddo.

"You're right, Sam," Dean mutters quietly, briefly glancing at his little brother. "I'm not Dad."

No. You're not. Sam wants to scream. You're a better father than he is.

Dean's face is unreadable as he mechanically drives the familiar route to the salvage yard. Sam almost doesn't hear him when he speaks again.

"Maybe it's time I look for my own life, just like you said."

It's a devastating blow to Sam's heart. He chokes on the lump in his throat, swallowing quickly while a wave of bile threatens to gag him.

"Dean, I didn't mean that," he pleads, begging with his eyes for his brother to believe him. "I'm so sorry."

Dean just shakes his head, never looking in his brother's direction.

"Don't, Sam. Just. Don't."

Not able to bear his brother's pain, Sam chews on his bottom lip until it bleeds, desperate to take back the entirety of the last twenty-four hours. He can't beg for forgiveness again, because he simply doesn't deserve it.

The rest of the ride to salvage yard is silent, both boys lost in their own dark thoughts. When Dean pulls up to Bobby's house, they sit in the driveway for a minute, neither one of them knowing what to say. Dean keeps his stare straight ahead, knowing that if he turns and lets himself see the puppy dog eyes that Sam is surely sending over to him, his resolve will waiver and he won't be able to resist the urge to back down.

Another minute of uncomfortable silence and Dean can't take it anymore.

"I have to get going. Dad's waiting on me."

Sam's eyes are tearing over, but his brother isn't looking at him, refuses to acknowledge him. Swallowing hard, he tries again to make amends before it is too late and Dean is gone.

"Dean...please.."

The mournful tone in his little brother's voice and the slight hitch in his throat almost undoes Dean completely and it takes every ounce of strength he has in him to stop himself from pulling the kid into a hug. He reminds himself that Sam has made his choice, defined his line in the sand. When the chips are really down, he just sees Dean as their father's puppet, nothing more. For years Dean has been deluding himself into thinking that they are closer than this and, as much as it hurts to admit, he has been wrong.

"Goodbye, Sam."

And that is the final nail in Sam's coffin. He hears his brother's flat voice and knows that he has destroyed their relationship. He's not Sammy anymore, he's Sam now. All of his life he has taken everything from Dean and finally his big brother has nothing left to give.

And why should he, after what Sam has said to him?

He grabs his bags from the seat and slowly exits the car, closing the door, hesitant to release the handle because he knows that when he does, his brother will be gone and there is no telling when he'll be back.

Dean doesn't wait for him though. He guns the engine and Sam has to jump back to avoid getting pelted with the gravel that the extra wide tires kick up as the Impala roars out of the salvage yard and back down the drive. Sam watches the car vanish, feeling dead inside and unable to move. He stands there motionless for several minutes until Bobby finally comes out to collect him.

/

Dad doesn't actually have a hunt in Des Moines.

In truth, Dean doesn't know where their father is, and when he does reach John in the morning, the man doesn't offer the information. All Dean knows is that he agrees to meet his son at Caleb's in Lincoln in the evening.

Dean has given his father the basic rundown of what transpired with Sam the previous night. After a frantic inquiry that eventually satisfies John that Sam is not badly injured, Dean waits for the expected tirade over his failures in keeping his brother safe and he's not disappointed.

His father's infuriated voice carried loudly over the connection, and for the briefest of seconds, Dean entertained a ridiculous notion that the man's ire might be enough to melt the phone as he held it. The rebuke ends sooner than he would have suspected, and he can only guess that John is waiting to see him in person before finishing the task of ripping him a new hole.

He doesn't need his father to reprimand him. He's doing a pretty good job all on his own.

/

John ambles along the cracked cement walkway leading up to the front stairs of Caleb's house and lets himself in without knocking. Caleb already knows he's here, because John taught him to be observant like that. If he catches the younger man off his guard, John will happily go a few rounds with him and reinforce his earlier teachings.

A lax awareness on Caleb's part could get the young hunter dead, and John has already lost enough people in his life.

Caleb is working at the dining room table, and looks up with a smile when John enters. There is a gun and a knife within easy reach of the younger man's hands, and John grins, knowing the kind of reception that anyone besides himself would have received.

From Dean's last phone call, he knows that his son will be arriving any minute and he wants to be waiting for him. Dean must be hauling ass as he is making the trip in less than three hours and John knows better than to think it is because his son is anxious to be on the hunt.

When Dean called him that morning and explained what had happened, John had lost his temper with his oldest and verbally flayed the boy alive for allowing such a thing to happen. Furthermore, he was entirely put out by Dean's insistence that John himself pack up and go to Sam's court appearance with him.

But it didn't take long for John to catch the note of defeat in Dean's voice as the boy took full responsibility for Sam's actions and begged his father's forgiveness for failing him, making John kick himself for his earlier rebuke.

He knows first hand how difficult his youngest can be, knows how much he has failed his children himself time and again. Dean has unfairly been forced to grow up well before his time, almost unfailingly rising to the occasion without hesitation or complaint, and John routinely acknowledges that he has placed an unfair burden on his oldest son's shoulders.

Something has gone horribly wrong between his boys and he knows, especially in light of his new information about Mary, that it is time for him to put aside the hunt for a minute and take care of his children.

The distinct rumble of the Impala's engine heralds his son's arrival and he rises from the well worn sofa to open the door of the house. It takes just a few seconds for Dean to spot him and John guilty observes the hesitant and cautious way that his son approaches him. While it is true that he has always thought it best to instill a healthy sense of fear of himself into his sons in his bid to keep them obedient of his orders and, subsequently, safer, it has never been his intention to make them afraid to talk to him.

Watching Dean's blatant unease, he realizes that this is exactly what he has done.

When his son climbs the front steps and is standing directly in front of him, John easily sees the dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep and Dean's posture, usually as rigid as any Marine in formation when he is standing in his father's presence, is slumped in defeat.

But most telling of all is the haunted look in the bright green eyes that are one of the only physical characteristics that his oldest inherited from John's own mother. One glance and John knows instantly that there is something decidedly broken in his son.

In a small gesture of affection, John reaches out and cups the back of Dean's neck, his thumb gently rubbing just underneath his hairline. He wants to hug his son, John has never shied away from showing his children affection. But Dean can get skittish, and prickly about physical contact when he's feeling especially low, and John knows how hard he is taking his own part in last night's fiasco.

Dean won't want to accept his father's embrace right now, and John doesn't force him. Any further attempt might result in the boy having his emotional barriers completely break down, and neither one of them can bear that right now.

He tugs Dean inside the room, releasing him to grab the neck of a bottle of El Sol, Dean's favorite beer. He pushes the bottle into his son's right hand and a thick folder of research on the reports of eaten bodies that Caleb is actually researching into the left.

Through this, neither have spoken a word, but as Dean sips the pale ale and peruses the file, he shoots his father several grateful looks. John is actually not the heartless bastard that many of his fellow hunters and, from time to time, his youngest son believe him to be. On occasion, he does have a sense of what his children truly need.

/

Sam spends the weekend holed up in the room that he and his brother usually share in Uncle Bobby's house. From time to time the salvage man knocks on the door and tries to coax the boy out for a meal, or even just some fresh air, but Sam has no interest in talking to or seeing anybody. He lays on his stomach on the bed and tries to breath through the lead weight that is pressing down on his chest.

Just a couple of days ago, his life had happiness and order to it, and now it lay in ruins right at his feet, and there didn't seem to be anything he could do about it.

He wasn't quite sure what had made him act so stupidly. Blind to see the things around him that were going on while he wasn't even bothering to pay attention.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized that Kristin had been cheating on him for a while. Maybe the entire time. That thought had sobered him, and destroyed what little confidence he had managed to build up in the romance department. Always terminally shy in the first place, it hadn't been easy to open up to a girl like that.

It's not like he had any good experiences with a girl. The only other one he had ever even kissed had been a monster that his father and brother had been hunting.

Amy had killed her own mother to save Sam's life, so it wasn't exactly what you would call a healthy relationship.

It didn't matter anyway.

His relationship with Kristin, regardless of what it may or may not have been, was well and truly over, and Sam was resigned to just dig further into his studies and bide his time unattached until he could graduate.

Dad and Dean had always told him that he couldn't have connections in the life they led, and Sam had always balked at that, thinking that it would be easier in civilian life. Apparently, he was wrong. It was just as painful to lose someone when you were normal.

He couldn't make himself try to call the other three that had been in the car that night. Michael most of all. Sam had never had any real close friends, besides his brother.

And he couldn't think about Dean right now because that topic was far too painful to allow in through the cracks of his consciousness.

For so many years, Sam had been sure that if he was just given the chance to stay still in one place long enough to let people get to know the real him, he would easily slide into a regular life. He had been given that chance here. The opportunity to live like he had always dreamed of doing at night while lying in the bed of another random motel room and feeling sorry for himself.

This time he didn't have his father to blame for dragging him away from a girl or from friends. This time it was all on Sam, and that knowledge crushed him even further.

He wouldn't have thought he would find himself feeling a degree of shame for blaming John for all of his unhappiness. It was much easier to lash out at his father and brother for all for all of the injustices he felt about their lifestyle.

Dad has prepared Sam for many things in life, but his father never prepared Sam for the hurt and rejection that a kid could be subjected to when it wasn't coupled with the overwhelming burden of a hunter's life. Truthfully, Sam wouldn't have thought it possible, sure that every negative experience he had regarding a social life was because of the fucked up way they lived, and not just the hazards of being the average American teenager.

Now that he was thinking more rationally, he had to come to the uncomfortable conclusion that he had no business being such an ass about his family's restrictions in the first place. For all of his talk of wanting normal, he had certainly been intentionally ignoring the very real fact that most of his friends had rules and curfews of their own to obey. Maybe not all as strict as Sam's, although some of them were.

In his desire to have a different life altogether, he found himself wanting everything, and when reality interfered with the apple pie life he envisioned for himself, it was a cold cup of coffee to the face when he finally understood that no one's life was perfect.

No matter how much a person could have, it usually didn't stop them from wanting more.

Sam was coming late to that party of thought, and he had only needed to lose his girlfriend, alienate his friends and demolish his relationship with his brother to do it.

Dad always did tell him that if you were going to do a job, make sure you go all the way.

Somehow, Sam didn't think that John would be too pleased with the lengths his youngest son went in this particular endeavor.

The hours passed slowly. Day falling into night, then day again, and then another quiet dark night alone his room. Uncle Bobby pulled the adult card and demanded his presence at the dinner table Sunday. Sam knew that his uncle cared for him, and was worried, but while he could force Sam to sit at the table, he couldn't force him to eat.

Eventually Sam was allowed back upstairs to continue his vigil of sleepless worry.

Over the weekend, he had called Dean's phone almost a dozen times, desperate to try and talk to his brother. To make amends with the one person who had always been there for him, no matter what, and who Sam had thoroughly destroyed without a second thought to how biting and vicious his words were when he was saying them.

The calls all went straight to voicemail, and eventually he had just stopped, knowing that if he was in Dean's shoes, he wouldn't want to talk to Sam either. Uncle Bobby had mentioned during their aborted dinner that he had spoken to Dean just a little earlier, so at least Sam knew his brother was still alive.

Dean, who had given up everything to move Sam into a real house. Dean, who worked hard all day to pay bills so they were living on the level for once. Dean, who managed to convince their father to let Sam attend a good school that drastically increased his college acceptance levels. Dean, who happily ferried Sam everywhere he wanted to go, and paid for his fancy tuition. Cooked their meals and did their laundry.

Dean, who had never asked for anything in return except a little consideration, which Sam hadn't even been able to summon up over his own desires.

The list was endless, when Sam ran them all through his head. He let out a gut wrenching unmanly sob and cried for being such a selfish and inconsiderate asshole, because he genuinely loved his brother more than anyone else in the world, including either of their parents, and he knew that he was the cause of the pain in Dean's eyes that last morning.

It might be too late now. Dean might have just finally said the hell with it and gone his own way, and Sam would have no one to blame but himself because he was the one that told his perpetually unselfish brother to get a life.

Dean had a life.

The one he routinely gave to Sam and to Dad.

As the clock on the wall ticked ever closer to the hour when Sam would have to get up for school Monday morning, he vowed that he would do whatever it took to get his brother back. Even if it meant going back on the road where Dean was happiest.

He owed that much to his brother.

/

There was nothing like cutting off a few zombie heads to make Dean Winchester happy.

Out in the field, machete at the ready, pumped up and swinging, Dean was able to shut off his mind and enjoy laying waste to evil.

It was supposed to be a two man job.

Caleb and John had been prepared to take it on alone, but with Dean's unexpected last minute arrival, they had more than enough manpower.

Not that they needed it.

With Dean desperate to get out of his own head space, the young hunter had blazed in, steadfast and determined, and took down the entire cursed cemetery almost completely on his own.

John had watched his boy, with a mixture of pride and terror as Dean lay waste to the undead bodies in his wake. His son was a talented hunter, to be sure, and while John could appreciate the skill Dean exhibited, the father in John didn't like the cold look of murder in his child's eyes.

Hunters needed that special brand of bravery and air of no hesitation to get the job done, but it didn't mean that Dean's Dad was comfortable seeing it exhibited by his kid in that ruthless of a manner.

Once the hunt was over, John had taken off, after giving Dean his word that he would be there for Sam's court appearance. Dean and Caleb spent the night going out on the town, and Caleb wasn't the least bit surprised when Dean gave him the signal that he was hooking up with the waitress at the bar they where they spent the night drinking and playing darts.

In the pale shades of dawn, Dean lay in the tangled up sheets of the waitress' bed.

Mindy? Mandy? Cindy?

It didn't matter. One pretty face just blurred into another over time.

The bed smelled like Impulse Body Spray and sex as Dean slipped out from under the rumpled flat sheet. The ambient light peeking in through the window illuminated his nude form, muscles taut and chiseled like a Rodin sculpture.

If he was being perfectly honest, part of his unattached indifference towards women stemmed from the fact that he was so often objectified himself. He was a good looking guy.

He knew it.

While covering over the cracks of his low self image with finely crafted bravado, he would often go over the top to brag about it.

Sammy, Sam, often poked at Dean's casual disregard for the women he had sex with, but what his know-it-all little brother didn't realize was that a lot of ladies were just as happy to use Dean's body for their own pleasure.

Lust and a tendency for acting shallow wasn't reserved solely for guys.

As angry and hurt as he was, Dean really hoped that his little brother never felt the rejection of a woman who had only been interested in having an attractive guy service her desires without feeling a need to bother to even ask his name sometimes, or stick around long enough to find out what he had to offer.

And Dean did have a lot to offer.

Of course, it wasn't for the women that shared a bed with him, or the backseat of his car, because he only had so much on tap, and what he did have he reserved for his family.

Dad and Sam both took a lot of energy. More than Dean could painlessly summon up somedays. Sometimes what it took to make them happy came at the cost of Dean's own life force.

Yet he would give it willingly, in full, every single time, because that is what you did for family, and regardless of his brother's hurtful words, Dean wasn't going to apologize for it.

Dean didn't have friends because he didn't have time for them. When Sammy, Sam, was out socializing and trying to fit in, Dean was worrying to death about keeping them both safe and fed when their father would disappear for weeks at a time.

While his little brother was reading books and waxing poetic about the unfairness in life, Dean was making sure that Sam's clothes were clean so they didn't look homeless and uncared for at their ever changing schools.

There just wasn't any time for the older brother to get a life of his own.

For that matter, Dean couldn't get a woman of his own because he had chosen his life already. The life of a hunter.

And it was brutal. And dangerous. Unpredictable, and came at the cost of loved ones. And it only ended one way.

Dean may be callous, but he wasn't callous enough to leave behind a wife and kids to grieve him when he got dead before the age of thirty.

He could never, ever do that to family.

It was selfish and cruel and he wasn't going to be the kind of man that did that.

It was hard enough to worry about his father and brother in the lives they led. Dean knew he would never survive losing either of them and remain whole. The loss of his mother had already taken a huge part of him, and any other loss would slash away more vital organs, leaving Dean a broken wreck of a human being.

Every hunt they undertook had him hoping against hope that if someone had to go out bloody, it would be him and not one of the other Winchester men.

John and Sam were strong, and they would both survive losing him far better than he could survive the loss of them.

So he didn't date with intent. And he didn't extend his hand in close friendship.

Because it was purely self defense that he didn't put himself in a position where he would be increasing the number of people that it would break him to lose.

Why Sam couldn't realize that, Dean didn't know, and honestly, he no longer had the strength to try and get his kid brother to understand.

Sammy kept calling, and damn it, Dean wanted to answer, because it was ingrained in him to respond when his brother needed him. Like the classic conditioning of a Pavlovian dog unable to stop, and it was humiliating that he was twenty-one and had molded his entire life around his kid brother's needs and happiness.

When clearly Sam didn't need him anymore. Resented him and chafed under his thumb as much as he ever had under their Dad's heavy hand. At least Sam showed a grudging deference to their father in acknowledging that the man had some right to steer him to manhood.

As if Dean hadn't been raising his little brother right alongside himself, when Dean was a scared kid, trying to figure it all out on his own and unwilling to burden their dad with inane questions and insecure moments.

It was no wonder that Dean chose to lose himself in a hunt, or a woman, or a six pack of beer, desperate, just for a moment to lose the crushing weight that accompanied his terror that his best would never be good enough to care for his brother. The person who mattered to him above everything else.

Dean spent the next couple of days crashing on Caleb's couch, not bothering to mess up one of the guest room beds. He didn't need much for himself, sleeping only a few hours a day anyway, and a lumpy couch was good enough for him.

Caleb was already off on another job, and Dean had been tempted to go along, but the job was in Arizona, and the part of Dean that didn't trust his father completely to be at Sam's side when he went to court kept the big brother within a few hours drive of Sioux Falls, just in case.

He spent the better part of that day walking the streets of downtown Lincoln, observing, with a hunter's critical eye, the hordes of people coming and going without care. Mired in the banality of their every day lives, without an inkling of what lurked in the shadows.

Most of them didn't even pay attention to him as he walked along, unless it was to get the occasional leering hopeful stare from a woman or, sometimes, even the occasional man.

As he watched them all scurry about their ordinary, everyday business, he knew, deep in his gut, that he would throw himself into hunt to protect them.

But he could never be one of them.

Because that wasn't his life.

/

It's just after two in the afternoon when John's truck pulls into Singer Salvage. He's left Dean with Caleb in Lincoln, the hunt they took together during the weekend successfully completed, and John's own side trip to Blue Earth yielding more disquieting information about Mary's parents that he really didn't want to contemplate just yet.

When this mini-drama with Sam is over, he has a few more trips to make, but he can't think about that now because the very weight of them will incapacitate him, and he still has his boys to care for at the moment.

Bobby answers the door when he knocks and the two exchange quick perfunctory pleasantries. An outsider would be hard pressed to believe that the two men are actually friends from looking at their body language, but there is no doubt that they are.

Over time, the distance between them has grown, as John's obsession took over more and more, but they are still as close as family ever could be, and John will always be that scared but determined young father that he was when he first arrived on Bobby's doorstep all those years ago.

Sam, alerted to his father's arrival by the sound of the truck's throaty motor, is already standing nervously by the couch, chewing on his pinkie nail when his father comes into the room. His shoulders are hunched in either defeat or sadness, or a combination of both, making him look significantly smaller than his increasing height.

"Let's go, Samuel," John commands, his words stern and unyielding.

Sam immediately obeys, grabbing his backpack and go-bag, hurrying over to where his father is standing. He has no desire to infuriate John more than he has already by giving him any attitude. John jerks his chin in Bobby's direction and stares at his son meaningfully.

"What do you say?" he demands, and Sam feels his face flushing at the humiliating prompt.

"Thank you for letting me stay over for the last few days, Uncle Bobby," he replies as politely as he can.

He knows what is expected of him. Good manners have been drummed into their heads since they were old enough to speak, and although the boys have practically lived in this house, they are still expected to be appreciative.

Bobby watches them uneasily as John snags Sam by the back of the boy's jacket and firmly pushes him towards the door. He knows that John is rough by nature but, in all fairness, especially after that regrettable incident, truly incapable of doing anything to genuinely hurt either of his boys. However, he isn't foolish enough to not know that Sam is in for it when his father gets him alone and, for once, Bobby agrees.

"Thanks for keeping an eye on him, Bobby," John mutters.

His words are quiet and gruff, but they are genuine and Bobby knows this. Bobby's not a religious man, having lost faith in the Almighty right around the time his wife got possessed, but he's still praying that everything works itself out for the little family.

These past few days have been rough on all of them.

Strapped into the passenger seat of his father's big black truck, Sam keeps his eyes glued to the floor as John yells. He doesn't actually have to pay attention to the words to understand what his father is saying, knowing perfectly well how many Winchester family rules he has smashed and, on this occasion, his father's chastisement doesn't inspire him to go on the offensive.

He's too broken up about what he has done to his relationship with his brother to care about anything else. He knows that there will be a reckoning when his father gets him alone later, and he doesn't particularly care about that either.

For his part, John unloads his irritation on his youngest until he realizes that Sam is already cowed to the point of not feeling anymore. He's been expecting the usual fight that comes from his son and it never materializes. For once, Sam has mostly kept his mouth shut, simply inserting the appropriate 'yes sirs' and 'no sirs' where required and quietly apologizing repeatedly. He wonders if Sam is really that nervous over his court appearance and lets it go for the moment.

They arrive at the small town court twenty minutes ahead of schedule and join the other parties already sitting in the folding chairs in front of the table that John assumes the town justice uses as his bench. Dean has already explained the situation to him in detail and John scans the room out of habit to try and get a feel for the other people present.

Taylor's father notices them and makes his way over. Once again he thanks Sam for what he did in assisting the other kids, especially his little girl. Sam is shy suddenly, blushing because the man doesn't know that it was because of him that they were in the car in the first place. Although the other three have made it perfectly clear in the last two days that they don't blame him, Sam still blames himself.

Taylor's father also thanks John for Sam's knowledge and quick thinking, and John puts a warm hand on Sam's back, proud of his boy, as he returns the thanks for the man's part in Sam's reduced charges. They end the conversation on warm terms as the judge takes the bench.

The hearing goes about as well as John expects. There are a lot of other people in court today. After what seems like forever, the kids are called up to the makeshift bench in turn with their parents. Sam is called second and John pushes his boy to his feet as they approach.

Sam knows what is expected of him and he speaks and reacts accordingly, properly throwing himself at the court's mercy as he knows is required to facilitate his exit from this legal sideshow. John assures the justice that his son has learned his lesson, that they appreciate the consideration of the lesser charge, and that they are willing to pay the fine.

After bestowing the obligatory legal reprimand, the judge releases Sam and directs them over to the court clerk for payment. When John pulls out his wallet to pay, the clerk informs them that Dean had made the payment Friday afternoon, and the disclosure proves to be too much for Sam to handle. He bolts out the door and throws up in the bushes outside the courthouse.

/

In the quiet and semi darkness of Sam's room, John threads his belt back through the loops of his jeans as he watched his son sleep fitfully. If he wasn't feeling helpless about the situation between his boys before, he definitely is now.

Sam was completely silent on the drive back to the house and, in a rare moment of indulgence, John almost decided that the kid had had enough for one day. But his sons have very little consistency in their lives, and discipline and obeying orders are the things that keep them safe.

Sam knows from years of experience what to expect from his father for his behavior and John feels compelled to follow through even though he doesn't particularly want to on this occasion. The past few days have done a number on John and all he wants to do is hug both of his kids and maybe take them out for a movie or a wrestling match if he can find one.

Unfortunately, he can't afford to have either of his boys question his authority and Sam already has a bad tendency towards it.

Once upon a time, John was a good father and, especially now, he is feeling the need to prove that again. One of the things a good father can do is give his children what they need, and occasionally what they need is a firm kick to the ass.

Back at the house, he immediately sends Sam to his room, surprised when his son complies without a single word of protest, because his youngest is famous for working up a head of steam and railing against the injustice of whatever he's being punished for. When John follows him up there a few minutes later, his belt folded up in his hand, he's already steeling himself for the expected shouting match that has become a part of the routine since Sammy was twelve and began standing up to his father in earnest.

This time, it was different.

Sam didn't utter one word as John entered the room, sitting on the edge of his bed, with his hands clasped between his knees and his head down in defeat. He seems surprised when John walks right in, because it's a thing now that he actually has a door of his own to keep closed, and John's pretty sure that Dean would have knocked first. For a second John realizes that maybe he should have as well, because privacy is a rare commodity in their world.

Sam's taken the time to change into his sleep clothes, and John knows that his son will want to just crawl into bed and lick his wounds in private when they are done. Sam's a sulker after a whipping, often ignoring his father and brother for hours.

The boy looks up enough to see that John's belt is already off and ready to get down to business. He swipes a hand across his face, stands shakily and turns around, about to bend over the bed, when his father grabs him gently by the arm and forces Sam to look at him.

John takes one look at his son's face, tears streaming down his thin cheeks and a look in his hazel eyes that breaks his father's heart.

This isn't like Sam.

His youngest is forever spitting fire and bucking every punishment he's ever been given. Never once has he broken down ahead of time and it scares his father.

He guides Sam down to sit back on the bed, taking a place next to him as he palms the side of Sam's face and gives the boy a probing look that leaves no question about what he's asking. Sam chokes for a second and the voice he responds in is that of a young child, hurt and confused, and it's almost too painful for John to bear.

"He's never going to forgive me."

As if a light had been switched on, Sam began to ramble, spitting out every bit of what had happened during the past few days in vivid and emotional detail. His thundercloud of guilt permeated the entire room as he despondently confessed to how badly he had screwed up, including the terrible accusations that he had hurled at his brother and his own shame for having hurt him so badly.

John knows that Sam isn't worked up over the party, because every kid has a moment or two of stupidity and rebellion.

John's had plenty himself.

The kid might have some guilt over getting their family noticed by the local police, since it has been drilled into him since childhood to avoid letting that happen, but John is also pretty sure that this would be one of the things that would usually have Sam raging about the unfairness of their lives, that he has to worry about such caution in the first place.

It wouldn't cause tears.

He's also pretty sure that it's not due to any embarrassment his son is feeling over his relationship with the cute blonde that Dean has told him about. Mary had been so incredibly beautiful, and John knows he isn't lacking in the looks department either, so he's not surprised that their two beautiful baby boys have become good looking young men. Sam's awkward adolescence might still have him reluctant to realize this about himself, but there is no doubt that John's youngest is now eye candy for the young ladies.

But then Sam spills all of the hurtful and mean spirited jabs he took at his brother, who had not done anything to deserve them. To his son's credit, Sam hasn't censored anything in his own defense, including the pointed references to John's own less than stellar parenting skills, and John tries not to be wounded over such a blatant observation.

Not that his youngest ever sugarcoats over the defects that he sees in his father, but poor Dean is usually not dragged into the mix.

John finds his temper rising and falling during Sammy's confession, but he tamps it down with blunt force because this time he is going to listen to everything that his boy has to say, regardless of how cruel and painful it is.

When his son was finally spent, John had a crystal clear picture and he now knows exactly why his oldest looked as haggard and devastated as he had. An assault of that kind from the brother he so fiercely adores would have been catastrophic to Dean, who only lets down his guard around his father and brother.

And not even always then, either.

Wearily, John also acknowledged to himself that he is more than partially responsible for this mess as well. He has put too much on Dean's shoulders since Sam was born, and he has intentionally made them dependent on one another so they won't be left floundering and alone if he falls.

Eventually, after his youngest is done confessing, he had coaxed an emotionally wrecked Sam into the bed and encouraged him to try and get some much needed sleep. Singer hadn't been kidding when he said that Sam never slept at his house. Completely drained, Sam put up no resistance, obediently crawling under his blankets, and hopeful for the sweet and uncomplicated release of slumber.

Feeling immense sadness, John sat on the edge of the bed and watched over his achingly young looking son until Sam's breathing finally evened out. It's not often that he's around when his kids are emotionally hurting, and even less often that either of his children will allow him to care for them, and he is woefully out of practice, as much as he regrets that.

He bitterly pushed back against the crushing tide of his own failures and is smart enough to realize that what both of his boys need is each other. A design of his own making that is now biting him in the ass when he sees first hand proof of what it does to them to be apart.

Once he is sure that Sam is out for the count, he makes his way downstairs and into the kitchen, pulls his cellphone out and dials.

/

"Come home, Son."

Panic wedged in his throat, Dean races back to Sioux Falls as if Lucifer himself was giving chase, the tone in his father's summons scaring the crap out of him. Although John has assured him that Sam is safe and sleeping in his room, in no physical danger, he also said that Sam needs him, truly needs him, and Dean wastes no time getting back.

Any thought of hurt he still feels from his little brother's words vanish when the reflex of the protective big brother kicks back in with a vengeance.

He pulls into the driveway, parking behind his father's truck and practically jumps from the car and bolts through the front door. John is sitting on the sofa in the living room, the bottle of Jose Cuervo that Dean has kept in the upper cabinet for his visits open and partially drained on the coffee table in front of him. His father looks bone tired as he nurses the tumbler in his hand.

"Sit down, Son. We need to talk."

Fifteen tense minutes later, Dean climbs the stairs and walks over to Sam's room, gently rapping on the door before entering. The room is dark, soft moonlight casting shadows on the blue walls, but he can make out the faint outline of his brother on the bed. Sam is lying with his back to the door and Dean slowly makes his way over, sitting on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight and alerting Sam to the fact that there is someone next to him.

Sam wakes, but doesn't turn around, thinking that it is John come to check on him. He's embarrassed by his earlier outburst, knowing how his father feels about overt displays of emotion. He keeps his eyes shut in the hope that his father will just assume that he is still sleeping and leave, and is completely unprepared for the voice he hears.

"Heya, Sammy," Dean says softly, and the sound of his brother's voice makes Sam's breathing hitch.

He spins around in surprise and sees the gentle familiar look on his big brother's face. The look that tells him that things may be okay after all. Sam sits up abruptly against the headboard, his eyes wide with shock, staring at Dean like he's not sure that his brother is really there. Dean gives him a knowing and sympathetic smile and the warm affection in his eyes starts to soothe the pain in Sam's chest.

"You okay, tiger?" Dean teases, a small smirking playing around the corners of his mouth. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Sam nods his head slightly, still somewhat dazed to see his brother sitting there and actually smiling at him. Dean determinedly holds his smile, hopefully long enough to convince Sam that everything is alright and, before he knows it, he finds himself with an armful of little brother as Sam ducks his head into Dean's shoulder.

He feels Sam trembling, knowing his emo kid well enough to guess that more tears are on the way, so he puts extra exertion into the hold he has around Sammy's shoulders, desperately trying to keep his little brother together before he breaks.

They don't speak for several minutes until the unaccustomed closeness starts to make Dean feel uncomfortable. Not that he minds hugging his little brother, especially after everything that has happened, but he is dangerously close to breaking down himself, and his continuing need to stay strong in front of the kid eventually forces him to gently push Sam away.

With a practiced eye, he takes a long hard look at his little brother. Notices the pale face and the dark circles around his eyes.

"Hey, when was the last time you really ate or slept, Sammy? You look like hell."

Mouth gaping in surprise, Sam doesn't respond to the question. He fidgets, trying to rein in his emotions which are all over the place. With another chance to apologize to his brother, he starts to speak before being interrupted when Dean holds his hand up.

"Don't, Sammy," he says quietly, recognizing the look on Sam's face. "It's over. Everything's okay. I swear."

Reluctantly, Sam respects his brother's unwillingness to discuss the tempest of hurt feelings between them and nods briefly, just grateful for whatever forgiveness Dean is willing to give him. Dean nods back at him and for the first time in days, both brothers feel the tension start to slip away.

"C'mon. I'm going to make you something to eat. You need some calories, little brother. And be extra nice to Dad, okay? You really worried him," Dean says over his shoulder as he leaves Sam's room.

When Sam quietly pads his way down into the living room, he sees his father sitting on the sofa in front of the old television, the telltale bottle of Jose a third empty on the coffee table.

As is his way when he is feeling vulnerable, Sam shuffles forward towards the sofa and lays down on it, tucking his long legs up on the end and resting his head on his father's balled up leather jacket that John grabs and lays on his own lap, knowing that his youngest is physically and emotionally wrecked and craving comfort.

Sam's emotions only come in two flavors.

Hostile Warrior and Wounded Puppy.

Hostile Warrior is winning by a mile these days, but Wounded Puppy still makes the occasional appearance and is not too proud to seek solace from his dad when he is sick or hurting.

Unlike Dean, whose regard for their father is respectful and steady, Sam is always either slugging it out or hugging it out with John. He knows that his dad is probably not done with him yet for this little episode, a Winchester boy never escapes a promised whipping, but he's simply too tired to care about that right now.

Sam breathes in the comforting mix of leather, gun oil, smoke, peppermint lozenges and cheap motel soap that he associates with his father. The familiar scent that reassures him that his dad is safe and sound and not bleeding out on the side of road somewhere. Wrung out on all fronts from several crappy days, he doesn't care if he is too old for this either.

Despite what John may think, given Sam's earlier condemnations, Sam will someday make John understand that he loves his father deeply, worries for him constantly, and his frequent rebellion against their lifestyle is driven from his desire to want them ALL out before he loses another member of his small family.

John doesn't say a word about the overt demand for cuddling from his usually angry and standoffish child, knowing days like this are numbered, and he obligingly cards his fingers soothingly through Sam's dark hair while they watch some nonsense on TV.

Sam is old enough to handle a man's burden, mature in ways that other teens don't ever have to contemplate, as evidenced by his cool, quick thinking during the accident. But maybe his father is feeling a little guilty over the fact that his boys were forced to abandon their childhoods too soon, so he's not going to say anything about his almost grown son's need for affection.

Dean observes them from the kitchen for a moment, a fond smile on his face. His kid brother is a tough little bastard unless he is overly tired, sick or it's, you know, freakin' Tuesday. He's feeling lighter than he has in a few days, grabbing a beer from the fridge and beginning to hum Ramble On contentedly as he flips the grilled cheese sandwiches he has on the stove, a genuine smile of happiness on his face.

For now, the little family is back to their version of normal.

John and Sam are actually both asleep by the time Dean has finished making the late night snack, and he doesn't have the heart to wake either of them. His father can sleep anywhere, in any uncomfortable position, especially with some tequila riding shotgun in his veins, and Sam seems pretty comfortable taking up the lion's share of the couch, although his legs will surely still have cramps in the morning.

As quietly as he can, Dean grabs a couple of spare blankets from the cabinet in the mud room and spreads them over his sleeping family, before he settles himself into the stuffed chair next to the couch. Sure he could go up to his own room and sleep in his comfortable bed after a few rough days on the road, but it's been a while since all the Winchesters slept in the security of the same room together, and Dean's not one to toss away a gift slumber party.

It's the best night's sleep he's had in months.

Another heavy snowstorm during the night gets all the local schools shut down the next day. No one actually needs to be up to go anywhere, however John, even hungover, is an early riser. He already has coffee on and breakfast cooking when his sons start to wake up, and they are soon lured to the table with the aromatic promises of pancakes and bacon.

It's not often that he gets to cook for his boys anymore, and even less often that he can dote on them. When he brings plates over to the table, Dean's pancakes are studded with the chocolate chips he loves, and Sam's stack already has a moat of maple syrup poured around the edges and, for a few moments, they feel like children again.

While they eat they talk about the hunt Dean completed, and John is both complimentary and critical, which is an improvement over the usually just critical debrief, and Dean will happily take it because his father's approval and advice are the particles of oxygen in his lungs.

When they are finished, John quietly but firmly reminds his youngest that they still need to head back upstairs for a while to take care of unfinished business. Sam responds with a respectful yes sir, and none of his usual attitude, getting up to follow his father to the stairs.

Dean's taken a dozen punishments for his brother over the years, always more at ease with being the one under the gun that having to witness his brother's pain. Even as much as Sam has hurt the insecure child inside of Dean to the point where he might think Sam has earned this one, the larger part of Dean, the big brother who has spent his entire life taking care of Sammy, wiping his tears, his nose and his butt, hates to see the kid upset.

He busies himself with the dishes while they head to Sam's room, and turns the volume on the radio near the sink up a little higher than normal because they have a house now, and he no longer has to overhear his brother's distress.

The whole thing is over quickly, and just minutes later John is making his way back down the stairs, as Dean is finishing up the silverware. John's face is a little more grim than he had been at breakfast, his eyes sad and weary, and Dean knows that it's because what has transpired in the last few minutes is the part of fatherhood that his dad really hates. Dad grabs his coat and heads towards the door.

"Going to the store to get the papers. Need anything?"

"No, Sir." Dean shakes his head, and the two share a look of understanding before John heads out. Dad needs a brisk walk and some cool air to get himself together right now.

A few minutes more and he hears Sam's tentative footsteps on the stairs before his little brother joins him in the kitchen, surprised that the kid doesn't want to stay in the privacy of his room. Sam's nose is running a little, his eyes red rimmed and slightly wet. He's subdued and contrite, his gait noticeably stiff as he ambles over to hover in Dean's immediate space.

Dad has apparently made a real impression this morning, and Dean knows from experience that his little brother will be feeling this one for a while. But Sam's not pissy, mouthy or sullen like he usually is after that particular brand of father/son time. He's leaning with his hip against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest, and looking so damn young that Dean's heart aches.

He knows without being told that Sam's willingness to go upstairs with their father had nothing to do with his guilt from going to that stupid party.

The mood is too heavy in the room, and Dean feels a desperate need to lighten it before they both sink.

"Need another hug?" The tone is light, playful, and it works, pulling a small smirk from his little brother's sad face.

"Jerk."

Dean grins, but he does give his little brother a quick one armed hug, giving the kid the option of pushing him away or taking the offered comfort, depending on his mood.

Sam hugs back, his chin resting on Dean's shoulder, and before his big brother can protest, he mutters a quiet sorry that makes Dean's gut clench before he gently pushes Sam away, turning him towards the living room and propelling him back towards the couch.

"Bitch."

He pulls the rank of big brother and decides that the two of them are going to spend the rest of the snowy morning watching movies. Bobby had given them an old VCR, and while Sam settles himself back under the blanket and stretches out, Dean grabs a bag from his wandering shopping spree in Lincoln, and pulls out used VHS tapes of Beastmaster and Beastmaster 2, ignoring the grin on Sam's face when he sees the covers. The magic of secondhand shops.

The younger brother knows that he is being indulged with his favorites that normally Dean would never willingly watch, and it cheers him up when he realizes that his brother went out of his way to buy the tapes when things were still bad between them.

When John comes back with his papers, his boys are relaxed and comfortable in front of the TV. Sam curled up under the blanket, and Dean sitting on the floor, his back propped up against the couch just a few inches away from where Sam's head is resting on a pillow.

Dean gives him an out-of-character, slightly challenging look, as if daring him to order them away from the TV for research or training or some other drudging task that usually marks their time together. John's eldest has a lifetime supply of Loyal and Obedient Son chits built up and he's clearly cashing some in today.

Even though he's not too thrilled with Dean's foray into insolence, John doesn't call him on it, nor does he object, for once, the boys taking some personal time. Instead, he goes and grabs research files out of his truck and spreads them out on the kitchen table so he can keep an eye on his boys while he works.

When he takes off his jacket, he reaches into the pocket and pulls out a bag of peanut M&Ms for Dean and bag of Gummy Bears for Sam, tossing them to his kids who catch them easily, and he smiles at their sharp reflexes.

It's enough training for the day, he justifies to himself, and he gets to work.

John Winchester may not win any father of the years awards, but he has always tried to be there for his kids when they really need him.

/

The house smells wonderfully of pine that morning, and Dean grudgingly admits to himself that Sam was right about getting a real tree. Even though picking it out in the two feet of snow at the tree farm had been a monster pain in the ass, it was worth it in the end.

It's a pretty thing, perched in the corner of the living room, and decorated with old fashioned balls and lights that Bobby found packed up in his attic. They've put some lights outside as well, around the windows and the railing for the front porch, because the neighbors decorate, and this year the Winchesters will too.

They're not children anymore, and money can still be a little tight, but there is a decent pile of poorly wrapped presents under the tree. None of them are particularly good at it.

Dean is studying a cookbook, trying to figure out what went wrong with the cinnamon rolls he made this morning that look like gnarled clumps of crusty goop.

"What time is Dad getting here?"

Sam has stepped away from the computer and is now pouring his third cup of coffee and dropping bread slices into the toaster, because those rolls were supposed to be breakfast, not some culinary form of medieval torture.

"Soon. He's just a few minutes out." Dean slams the book shut in defeat and dumps the pan into the trash.

While Sam is putting jelly on his toast, they hear an unfamiliar car pull up to the house, and Dean frowns, going on alert and gesturing to Sam to go and check the window. The younger brother moves quickly and stealthily across the living room and peeks out from the corner of the curtains for a second before relaxing.

"It's Dad. Did something happen to his truck? He's driving this kick ass Camaro."

Sam looks confused, and Dean just shrugs, jerking his head towards the door to get Sam moving. John's not coming inside, so Sam heads out to meet him, his brother hot on his heels.

"Merry Christmas, Dad!" Sam calls out, smiling even as his eyebrows furrow questioningly. "What's with the classic carjacking?"

John is smiling from ear to ear, showing off the dimples that he has passed down to his younger son. Turning to Dean who is also grinning, they share a knowing look as Sam switches his gaze from one to the other.

"Merry Christmas, Sammy." John flips the keys in his hand to his youngest, who catches them easily, still confused until he sees the front grill has a red bow tied to it.

Realization dawns on him and his eyes widen comically, causing peals of laughter from his father and his brother as he throws his arms around his father and hugs him enthusiastically.

"Merry Christmas, little brother," Dean says softly, coming over to join them.

"It was your brother's idea," John say, releasing his youngest. "He's been working on it for months."

Not about to take full credit, Dean reaches over to slap John's back.

"We did it together. Dad's been coming into town just to work on it with me."

Sam turns to hug his brother and holds on tight, amazed that they have done this for him. When they step back from each other, John glances at Dean and gets a quick nod. His firstborn knows what he's about to do. Pulling an envelope from his coat pocket, he hands it over to Sam with a sad wistfulness on his face.

"It's not the same one," he warns, not wanting Sam to get too excited. "But it is identical."

Sam's confusion is back, and he tentatively reaches for the envelope. At his father's prompting, he opens it cautiously and pulls out the contents. As soon as he sees it, his face loses two shades of color and his lower lip begins to tremble.

"Mom?"

"She had one exactly like this, Son," John says, as he puts a steadying arm around Sam's shoulders. "God, she loved that car."

Both boys are fighting back tears at this point. The photo of a young Mary and her Mediterranean blue Camaro with white racing stripes takes their collective breath away.

"Where did you get this?" Sam's voice is incredulous as he swallows hard.

"An old friend of your Mom's gave it to me. Your brother and I both thought you should have it to go with the car," John replies quietly. "I'm just sorry it's not the actual one from the picture."

None of them can speak for a moment, too fragile from the flood of memories engulfing them. Dean recovers first, because he has to, and he brushes the wetness from his eyes and claps his hands.

"Alright, that's enough of the caring and sharing. C'mon, man, let's take her for a ride. Wait until you see the inside, Sammy. I swear this girl is cherry!"

Sam smiles again, fondly indulgent of his brother's ability to turn his moods on and off. He nods and eagerly heads to the driver's side, clutching the photo in his hand.

They all pile in the car. Sam behind the wheel, grinning like a fool, with John riding shotgun, and Dean folded up in the back. Sam looks at his brother in the rear view mirror and makes a bittersweet observation that this is probably the first time in a decade that Dean has been in the back seat of a car when he wasn't either bleeding out or having sex.

His brother smiles at him and winks, and Sam blushes at the implication that its time he finds a girl for some backseat action of his own.

Sam reverently wedges the photo onto the instrument panel, kissing the fingers of his right hand and gently placing them near his mother's cheek. Under his father's watchful gaze, he starts the powerful engine, and appreciates the throaty purr. Growing up in the Impala has given him a taste for a classic beauty.

They spend almost two hours just driving around until both boys are starving. With Mom's photo in the car with them, it's as close to a family road trip as Sam has ever had. When he pulls into the driveway of the little house, his heart is bursting with love for his family, and he feels the slightest grip on his plans to leave them after graduation start to slip away.

It's as pleasing, as it is frightening.