Rule 8: Don't leave M&Ms in the hot sun

Dean leaned forward in the Impala's front passenger seat and turned up the volume on the radio as John Fogerty began to belt out, "Eye Of The Zombie" and even his father began to tap his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove.

From the back seat of the classic Chevy, Sam groaned and wiped a forearm over his brow, his skin slick with sweat despite all four windows in the vehicle being wide open.

"Are we there yet?" the eleven-year old asked, his eyelids heavy with the heat.

"We still have a few hours to go," John replied and Sam sighed.

The Winchesters were heading towards Corpus Christi, Texas where a Chupacabra was attacking unattended pets and small children in the Flour Bluff neighbourhood.

The eleven-year old closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep before they arrived at their destination. Soon, the oppressive heat and motion of the Chevy eased the youngest Winchester into a light slumber.

W

"W-Where are we?" Sam stammered tiredly as the Impala ground to a halt and he sat up, grimacing as he pulled his damp t-shirt away from his chest where it had stuck with sweat.

From his seat ahead of Sam, Dean turned to face his brother.

"Gas station," the fifteen-year old answered and Sam glanced out the window, seeing a run-down row of four pumps and a small store, coated with dust.

Besides the station, there was nothing else around. The road the Winchesters were on was bordered on both sides by an endless yellow-sand desert, broken only occasionally by a jut of red sandstone or a dark green cactus.

"You two want to come in?" John asked as he opened his door.

Dean instantly jumped at the chance and followed their father out, standing beside the pump impatiently as he waited for John to top up the Impala and head inside where there would be snacks.

Sam remained where he was. He didn't care to go into the convenience store. Knowing Dean, he wouldn't take long to find something he wanted.

The eleven-year old rubbed a hand over his eyes before he placed his forearm along the open window and rested his chin on his arm, staring out at the desert.

SPN

Dean went ahead of John into the convenience store, making a beeline for the candy section.

"All right!" he exclaimed happily at the sight of three different kinds of M&Ms- almond, peanut and milk chocolate- and grabbed a couple of yellow baggies.

"Dad!" the fifteen-year old called to his father who was up at the front of the store, paying for the gas, "Can I get these?"

John turned as his eldest son came towards him from the candy aisle. It was clear from the expression on the hunter's face that he was in a hurry and would rather not be delayed with buying treats for his teenage son. However, he turned back to the pretty, young Latino girl behind the counter, and spoke to her, "The candy too."

"Did you get something for your brother?" John asked and Dean frowned for a moment before reaching out to the shelve of snacks in front of the cash register and grabbing a bag of Snyder's Honey Mustard and Onion flavoured Pretzel Pieces and setting them down on the counter alongside the M&M's.

After paying for the snacks, John handed them to Dean and followed him outside. The teen noticing two large motorcycles propped up in front of two pumps, their owners nowhere to be seen.

"Hey Sammy!" Dean called and tossed the pretzels through the open back passenger-side window closest to him and froze.

The bag of pretzels landed heavily on the Impala's bench seat, its empty seat. Sam was not in the car.

"Sammy?" Dean asked and peered through the window to the other side of the car, thinking that maybe his brother had decided to stretch his legs after all.

"Sam!" John barked, his tone commanding his youngest son to appear from wherever he was that instant.

Dean trotted around to the right side of the Chevy and threw his own snacks onto his seat before gazing out at the desert landscape surrounding them.

"Sammy!" Dean called, his heart beginning to pound with fear, his palms clammy with nervous sweat.

"SAM!" John shouted, louder than his son.

Suddenly, the father turned and saw two young men, one of Mexican descent and one with blond hair and blue eyes- both wearing denim jackets, red bandanas on their heads, jeans and black leather hobnail boots- run out from behind the convenience store, where the bathrooms were located, jump on their motorcycles as though Hell Hounds were chasing them and peel away from the station with a scream of rubber.

Dean's heart dropped down into his stomach even as it began trotting with fear. Something was very wrong.

"Sammy!" the fifteen-year old called his brother's name and headed around to the back of the store, John following right behind him.

For a moment Dean didn't see his brother. All he saw was an upright glass-windowed freezer with bags of ice inside and a hulking green dumpster. Three doors were outlined along the back wall of the building itself; one was a men's restroom, one a women's' and the third a rear entrance to the store- probably leading into the storage area- then he noticed the crumpled form curled against the dumpster.

"Sammy," Dean breathed and rushed forward, John at his side.

The eleven-year old sat with his legs pulled up to his chest but his arms dangled at his sides. His head rested against the side of the rusty, flaking dumpster. The boy's eyes were closed.

"Sammy?" Dean called and his brother's eyes fluttered.

"Dean?" he whispered, "Dad?"

Sam tried to shift his position and gasped in pain, arms wrapping around his middle. Dean saw that blood had flowed from his nose down his face and was already drying on his chin.

"What happened?" the older brother asked and reached out to place his hands beneath Sam's armpits and lifted him closer, raising his t-shirt to examine his abdomen. Dean frowned at the bruises darkening the skin across his sibling's trunk. Carefully, the fifteen-year old reached out with his free hand and prodded Sam's ribs, checking for any cracks or breaks.

The eleven-year old whimpered but spoke, eyes focusing on his father's face as Dean continued his examination.

"D-Did you s-see those two g-guys?"

"We did," John answered, his tone tight and unhappy.

"Th-they pulled up beside us a f-few minutes after you and Dean went inside," Sam continued, "The- OW!"

"Sorry, Sammy," the fifteen-year old murmured apologetically.

"They s-saw the car and a-asked about it. They w-wanted to s-see if they c-could buy it or s-something," Sam kept speaking though his voice was becoming fainter.

"I s-said no," he told them, "And th-they turned and I th-thought they were g-gonna go inside. The one with blond hair went a-around the b-back of the car and grabbed m'arm and pulled m-me out…he opened the d-door and pulled me out."

"The-Then the other one grabbed my arm too a-and they dragged me behind the s-station," Sam whispered.

"Why didn't you call for help?" John asked, as Dean finished his exam of Sam's ribs and lowered his shirt back into place.

The eleven-year old raised an arm and wiped it across his nose, smearing the skin with blood.

"They c-covered my mouth so I couldn't," he answered dejectedly, "S-Shoved… They shoved me into the wall and held me there. One of them punched me in the face… I don't r-really remember a whole lot after that… Then they kicked me…"

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean murmured and slipped a gentle arm across his brother's shoulders. Miraculously he hadn't felt any broken ribs but they had certainly taken a beating and were bruised, if not cracked, and would be sore for a few weeks, maybe a month or two.

"Then you started calling my name," Sam started again, "And they got scared and ran."

John clenched his hands into fists. If he had known that was why those two punks had running for their bikes as though the Devil himself was chasing them, he'd have stopped them and given them something to be afraid of.

"Can you stand?" Dean asked and Sam nodded, "I think so."

With both hands once again beneath his baby brother's armpits, the fifteen-year old stood, drawing Sam up with him. The younger Winchester grimaced in pain and his breath came in panting gasps but he was standing, if hunching a bit.

"Let's just get to Corpus Christi," John told his sons as he led them slowly around to the front of the convenience store.

Dean opened the Impala's back door closest to them and Sam crawled into the vehicle, whimpering in pain. Only once he was sitting in his seat behind Dean's, did the older brother close the door.

"You alright, Sam?" John asked as Dean made his way around to his side of the car.

"Yeah," Sam replied shortly, clearly still in pain from his battered ribs.

Dean dropped down into his own seat and picked up one of the bags of M&Ms.

"Why don't you lay down?" the eldest Winchester suggested, "Try and get some rest."

As John started the Impala's engine and began to pull away from the gas station, Dean tore open the bag of candies and eagerly stuck his hand in.

"Hey!" he exclaimed and withdrew his hand, his fingers slick with melted chocolate.

Peering into the bag in irritation, the fifteen year old saw that his M&M's had been reduced to a sticky mess of gloopy chocolate and candy with peanuts suspended in it.

The candies had melted in the hot Texas sun.

"Hey Sammy? Are you gonna eat those pretzels?" Dean asked his brother.

Without a response, the eleven-year old handed the snack over to his sibling.

"Thanks Sammy," Dean replied and opened the bag, shoving a handful of pretzel pieces into his mouth.

"Here."

Sam looked up and saw his brother proffering an open bag of pretzels.

The eleven-year old smiled, despite his sore ribs and took a handful of the snack.

"Thanks, Dean."

Author's Note:

Rule suggested by Reannablue. This one is more on the humorous side, especially after the last one, which wasn't really until the end, but I just had to go with the Black Dog attacking Sam. If you've been with me for a while, you know my style and my penchant for hurt!Sam and caring, protective Dean.

Thanks to CarverEdlundtheLast, elliereynolds777, reannablue, jensensgirl3, SamDeanLover28, GuardianOfMusic27855, StyxxsOmega, and TheFantasticLadyMax for reviewing.

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