AN: Oh, dear. Please don't hate me, lovely readers! I swear I've been writing, but don't have much opportunity to post much. So two chapters tonight.

sfaulkenberry: Thank you!!! And would that trouble magnet really be injured and in trouble with me writing? Yeah, he's totally not safe with me. There's more Bobby to come, and angstiness and all of the things that I love to write. Lots of Dean POV too. And you know I like to make Sam a bad ass too! Even though I then beat on him. I hope your fingernails didn't suffer too much!

ToastySoup: Thank you! I hope it keeps living up to your expectations. More Bobby soon!

Lena: Bwahaha! I always laugh when you say you want to shake someone like a tree. BTW, did you ever get my email? I sent it again; it should make you laugh.

Ruby: Thank you for reading and posting comments. I hope the upcoming chapters give you a little resolution, though the guys aren't safe yet.

kandilyn: I'm so pleased you're enjoying it and took the time to comment! I work hard to (try to) keep everyone in character as much as possible.

Arantxa2020: I appreciate it!

Stormy: Wow, what a lovely thing to say! I completely could picture the tarasque climbing up out of the dark water, and didn't know if I conveyed my vision well. I so wish I were capable of drawing what I see in my head, but I'll have to make do with words. I'm glad it came to life for you. BTW, I drew inspiration for the long neck and claws from a dinosaur called therizinosaurus, in case you're interested – those things were scary looking! Anyway, thank you SO much for your encouragement.

Scealai: Uh-oh! Don't hate me! But I do take it as a compliment. I hope the next couple chapters help, though I won't promise relief quite yet…bad, bad writer.

scootersmom: Sorry for the wait! I hope I adequately answer the questions that are bugging you!

Jenjoremy: I'm just twisted enough to take that as a compliment! And more Bobby is coming – even before you asked. I mean, who doesn't love Bobby? I'm not especially nice to him, though…or any of them, really. Oops…

* * *

Dean's heart had just stopped. Or at least, that's what it felt like. The hunt had gone perfectly to plan, right until the moment it hadn't. Somehow Sam wasn't on top of the cliff any more, but was on the shore. And when the monster appeared, not only was it not where they'd expected, it wasn't anywhere close to what they'd expected. They'd looked for human-looking creatures with big fangs to emerge from the trees. Instead, a nightmare rose from the lake, water pouring off the black scales that covered most of it. The moon came out to greet the monster, illuminating something looked like a Frankenstein mishmash of the supernatural. It was built like a tank with a long neck and six legs, and its face sported a relatively short muzzle and a mouth big enough to bite a man in half. Each leg was tipped with sword-like claws long enough to pass all the way through a human body, and its back and sides were covered by a hard shell. Dean was shooting at it without thought, but the bullets pinged right off the armor and it didn't even turn to look.

Then Dean saw what had the dragon's attention. Who. It was staring straight at the upright figure of his little brother, who was facing it down like some insane matador with a ridiculously inadequate spear in his hand. If they survived this, Dean was going to kill him. Or lock him up. And then kill him.

Sam was shooting at the thing, at its neck, and Dean adjusted his own aim for its more vulnerable areas. He registered Dad was running and firing next to him, but his focus was all to the south. All he really knew was that something was trying to kill Sammy and he wasn't about to let that happen.

Now blood even darker than the scales ran down the creature's neck, but it wasn't deflected from its prey. It reared up on its back set of legs, and Sam. Ran. Toward. It.

Dean was yelling and running and still shooting and didn't even know what he was saying. But nothing he did stopped the inexorable fall of the dragon thing and it crashed down on top of Sam, an image that would be seared forever into Dean's brain.

The creature fell onto its side, screaming and writhing, whipping its impossibly long neck back and forth. Dean dropped his gun and pulled out his long knife as he scaled the spiky shell of the monster's back. Hatred and anger fueled him as he began to hack at the base of the thing's neck. It screamed again and again, but all Dean could hear through the pounding in his ears was the litany Sammy's dead Sammy's dead Sammy's dead.

Dad was somehow next to Dean, cutting with an inadequate knife. Dean caught sight of a body on the ground, and handed his longer knife to Dad without a thought. Dean no longer cared if the monster lived or died or killed everyone in the whole nearby town. He just had to get to his little brother. He dropped to his feet and only going immediately down to his belly saved him from having his head taken off by the flailing limbs. Actually, something skimmed the back of his shoulder, but the pain couldn't possibly compete with the pain he felt inside.

Dean dashed over to the horribly still form sprawled awkwardly on the cold ground. Dad was saying something, but not only could Dean not hear what, he didn't think he could even breathe. Dean's stomach and heart seemed as crushed as Sam had to be. He'd never felt such horror or pain and he gave a half hiccup, half sob, barely avoiding throwing up.

Sam was so covered in the thick, dark blood of the monster that Dean couldn't even make out his facial features. It felt like sacrilege. With shaking hands, Dean used the wrist of his sleeve to wipe Sam's face once, then a second time. And froze. There. Yes. There was a puff of air against his wrist. And another. Was it even possible?

A loud, wet splat heralded Dean's discovery. He heard Dad land lightly on the ground and finally was able to get some words out. His voice was reedy and didn't sound like him at all. "Dad…he's alive."

"Of course he is," Despite the confident words, Dad couldn't hide his relief. He and Dean silently and rapidly did a field assessment, running hands over Sam's arms and legs, then Dad checked his head and neck while Dean did his torso. The latter places were where they found trouble.

"Large lump here," Dad reported, trying to push tacky hair away from Sam's left temple. "Not bleeding, or not much. I don't think." He moved on to pry one of Sam's eyes open.

"Dad – he's bleeding," Dean interrupted the efforts, pulling up Sam's shirt to show a long gash along the right side of his ribs. And speaking of ribs – "and there's two cracked ribs, I think. They don't move enough to be broken, though."

Dad flicked his flashlight over the injury, quickly assessing. They could both see that the skin was split cleanly, as if by something very sharp. It was easy to figure out that Sam had been caught by one of the sword-like claws and only his ribs had prevented him from being eviscerated, and only luck had kept him from being completely crushed by the thing's body. Luck and the long spear that was sticking out of its heart. The spear that Sam had insisted on taking despite its uselessness on human-sized opponents. Dean shied away from the thought to focus on triage. He pulled off his own top shirt and pushed it down as hard as he dared on the wound to stop the bleeding as Dad went back to checking Sam's pupil response.

"If he's got a concussion, it's not a bad one," Dad pronounced.

After a moment, Dean took advantage of a break in the clouds to peek at the wound. "Blood is definitely slowing down." And Dean could finally breathe a little. Not only was Sam alive, he was probably going to be okay. He and Dad wouldn't let it be any other way.

Dad gave a decisive nod. "Okay. We've got to get him back to the motel and clean this up before we sew him up."

"He's – " to Dean's horror his voice broke. "He's going to be okay?"

Dad looked directly into Dean's eyes without taking his hand off Sam's head, and another peek of moonlight let Dean see the strength and volatility of emotions in Dad's dark eyes. The amount of love, fear, and determination mingled there struck Dean like a punch. Because Dean and Sam were so intertwined, so adept at reading each other, and lived so much in each other's pockets, Dean sometimes temporarily forgot just how much their dad loved them too. "He will," growled Dad with so much conviction that Dean had to believe there was no other alternative. "Let's get him to the car. You'll have to ride in the back with him to keep pressure on that." He paused and frowned in thought for a second, probably wishing, as Dean was, that Sam would wake up.

"Why don't we wrap him in a blanket to keep warm?" suggested Dean, thinking both of the cold and the need to keep the ribs immobilized. With another quick nod, Dad jogged back toward the car so Dean could keep pressure on the long wound.

"C'mon, you little idiot," encouraged Dean softly as soon as Dad was a little ways away. "Open your eyes so I can yell at you. Because I really want to know what the hell you were thinking, not to mention how you got down here. And you're not ducking any conversation this time, asshole." Dean stopped and took a breath. Anger wasn't going to do anything right now, and Sam certainly wasn't going to wake up for it. He'd never responded well to anger – to put it mildly.

Dean took a new tack, softening his voice. "I'm serious, man. I need you to open those eyes. I can't – I don't know how to live without you, ya know? Whatever happened, just talk to me about it. I told you we'd figure it out together, and we will. Wake up, Sam. Wake up." Dean broke off as Dad jogged up with an armful of blanket.

"How's the bleeding?"

Dean snapped into report mode and took a quick look. "Slowing, but still bleeding. Dad, he's lost quite a bit…we have to get this cleaned and stitched."

"Fifteen minutes we'll be at the motel." Again, Dad's calm anchored Dean. In less time than thought, they had Sam wrapped in the blanket and were walking quickly and carefully toward the car with Dad carrying the gangly teen while Dean held pressure on the wound. It was a delicate balance to push hard enough to slow the bleeding but not cause further injury to the ribs. Dad's gait was steady despite the weight, and Dean managed to keep the pressure nice and even.

Dean hopped into the back seat and Dad put Sam's upper body against him so he could slide over, pulling Sam's legs in after them.

The drive seemed to take forever, even though it actually only took about 10 minutes. Dean had time to feel the expected shakes from the adrenaline dump. I don't have time for shock, he scolded himself. Suck it up, Winchester. It wasn't like he had never had blood on his hands before, or even had someone's life dependent on him. But of course, this wasn't someone. This was Sam. Sam's blood, and that was completely different.

"You wake up, bitch," he whispered harshly. This was his fault. He was supposed to keep the little idiot safe, no matter what.

A ringing sound pulled Dean from his self-castigation, and he recognized that Dad was making a call with his phone on speaker. "Winchester! I've been trying to call you. It's not okamis." exclaimed Bobby's tinny voice from the phone speaker without preamble.

"How -- ? You know what, I don't care how you knew. It was a – "

"Tarasque. Yeah. Something about it wasn't sittin' right with me, so I did some research on my own. Sam okay? And Dean 'n' you?"

Dean's focus was still on his brother and on keeping pressure on the gash, but he didn't miss the odd way that Bobby had asked about how they were.

"Are its claws poisonous?" demanded John, obviously processing faster than Dean was.

"No. They pin down or crush their prey, then eat 'em. No poison." Bobby paused uncharacteristically. "Sam?"

"Will be fine." John's voice was dark, absolute conviction in it, as if he could will it to be true. "And Dean and I aren't hurt."

"John…Sam had to know what you were hunting." Bobby didn't pull his punches, but he said the words quietly.

"What are you saying, Singer?" John took a corner dangerously fast, but there was more danger in his words than in his driving.

"Nothin'. Just lettin' you know. You need any help?"

John gave a weary chuckle devoid of amusement. "Not unless you can burn a 5-ton body before daybreak."

"I can be there in 2 hours if you give me the address."

"Two…?"

"I left as soon as I couldn't reach you."

Dean didn't know what his Dad was feeling, but personally, he felt a wave of gratitude that was the first thing to really penetrate the fear and worry that had swamped him since he'd seen that tarasque thing try and crush his little brother.

"Yeah…thanks. I'll send it as soon as I can. And…we'll call when Sam's stable." Dad sounded much more muted than normal, and Dean guessed that he wasn't the only one who was grateful.

"Sounds good," responded Bobby easily, and hung up.

The timing was perfect, too, because they were pulling into the motel lot. Luckily, it was unlit, and they could park right in front of their room door. "Hang on," Dad snapped when Dean opened the car door. Dad unloaded some stuff from the trunk and ran inside. Dean started backing awkwardly out of the car without letting go of Sam despite the order, knowing Dad would be there in a second. And he was.

Even though it was Dad, Dean found himself wishing he could do this himself. Just four years earlier, Sam had sprained an ankle, and Dean had been able to grab him up bridal style and carry him the half mile back to their current motel du jour. More than that, Dean had given him piggy-back rides for weeks afterwards whenever Sam got to frustrated with his limited mobility. But the skinny 12-year-old was long gone, and slender as the 6'2" version was, he was still heavy and hard to carry.

They somehow unloaded Sam's unresponsive form without him touching the ground, Dad getting ahold of his legs. The way Sam's head simply lolled against Dean's shoulder made the seriousness of the situation strike home all over again. Sam could have died. Could still die. The night was far from over.