A/N: Okay, so a low action chapter, but realistically, I needed to address the natural fall out of sick Sam. Besides, I figured it was time we spent a little time in Sam's head. Sorry if Sam's illness doesn't contain a ton of details, but my intention was never for it to be the focus as much as how his family reacted to it. I've also taken obvious liberties with medical facts and such the like, lol

Trigger Warning for suicidal thoughts. Please read responsibly.

As Always,

EverReader

PS- Please please please please review! I will happily discuss my story with you, especially if you have any questions!

PPS- If you have been following my other AU, it updated yesterday, and for kicks and giggles I added a poll to my profile, where my readers can let me know what characters they'd like to see cameo.

Prisoner of War – Chapter 9

"Bullet With My Brother's Name On It"

From the personal journal of John Henry Winchester:

God help me, but it's hard to look at Sam now. I know intellectually that he's no different today than he was a year ago, or two years ago, and yet...

He's an angry child. He was gentle when he was younger, so much so that I worried he wouldn't have what it took to make it as a hunter. Gentleness is a liability in our line of work. But now, as every day goes by, it seems like he grows angrier, more defiant, more rebellious. Perhaps it's simply that he's a teenager now.

But what if it's not? What if it's the influence of the Demon blood making itself known? The poison has hidden inside him for years, and God only knows how it has changed him. I try to push him harder to keep him focused, on the family, on the mission, but his anger makes him careless, makes him dangerous. I fear his disobedience won't just get him killed, but his brother too. I find myself wondering if I should send Dean away for his own safety, but I don't, partially because I can't quite bring myself to let go of him completely.

Partially because then I would have to take control of Sam full time, and God help me, he may be my child but sometimes I look at him and see his mother burning on the ceiling.

Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural

Sam wasn't sick for days, he was sick for weeks.

He probably-no, definitely should have been in a hospital, at least for the first couple of days, but John was adamant that they stay below the radar, insisting that they could handle it themselves. Sam had already missed quite a bit of school this year, and his array of bruises and injuries would raise questions the Winchesters couldn't afford to field, with Sammy still just being sixteen.

Dean hated it, but Family Services had gone after the brothers a few times in the past, and Dean was no more willing than John to let the social workers have a stab at their family.

Sam probably would have ended up in the hospital anyway, but a frantic call placed by Dean to Bobby had the older hunter cashing in a favor. Sam had spiked a nearly one-hundred and five degree fever, and social workers or no, that was simply to damn high for Dean and John to deal with on their own.

Fortunately, Bobby seemed to somehow have contacts everywhere. Less than an hour after Dean had called Bobby, visit from a local doctor confirmed Sam's official status as 'walking wounded'. The laundry list of problems the doctor found with just his cursory exam made Dean's stomach churn.

A concussion, two stitches that needed to be re-sewn along Sam's scalp, a badly wrenched knee, scrapes on his hands that were edging toward infected, all on top of what the Doctor had sarcastically labeled as "walking pneumonia" , as in, Sam's happy-ass needed to be walked into the emergency room.

He'd pressed his lips together so tightly they'd turned white, shaking his head in obvious disapproval when John declined. Reluctantly, the Doctor given Sam an injection of a strong combo of antibiotics, warning the Winchester s that if it turned out to be viral pneumonia instead of bacterial, they would be finding it out at Sam's autopsy.

He'd left Dean and John with three pages of notes, instructions, directions for medications, and new symptoms to watch out for.

Dean had sat vigil at Sam's bedside, ready with pain killers, fever reducers, juice and the ever present antibiotics.

Fortunately, the drugs seemed to work, though it took nearly six days for Sam crest the hill of his illness and start down the slow road to recovery. He'd slept away whole days, when the coughing would allow him to, anyway, and Dean had ended up propping him up with every pillow in their room in attempt to ease his breathing. Dean would have to force him awake to stay on schedule with his medicines, and to at least try to stay hydrated.

He lost weight quickly, as was his habit any time his body was under duress, and Dean eventually had to start battling him to eat, forcing soup and protein shakes on him. He lost track of time easily, and Dean once had to tell him the day of the week three times in the short hour he managed to stay alert.

Sam would wake up confused and wary, jerking from any unexpected touch or noise. Dean learned a few days into Sam's illness just how much Sam's hand to hand combat skills had improved, the fading bruise along his jaw a lasting souvenir.

Dean wondered if what had happened back at the lake had frightened Sam worse than he let on, because Dean had been in charge of Sammy whenever the kid was sick for as long as he could remember, and he'd never seen the kid jumpy and defensive like he was being now. He hoped it was just because Sam had never been quite this sick before.

Sam fought against taking the medicine, fought the wet cloths Dean placed on his brow to try to lower his fever, shook off Dean's hands when Dean would try to help him to the bathroom.

Honestly, Sam was so out of it, Dean wasn't even sure if he was aware he was doing it most of the time. Independent by nature, a sick and delirious Sammy 2.0 seemed to view any interference, no matter how well meaning, as an attack.

Eventually, Sam's periods of lucidity grew longer, and the coughing finally started to abate, albeit far more slowly than Dean would have preferred. He was starting to stay awake longer and longer, and his fever started lingering in the two-digit range again, though it took very little to set it off again.

Sam remained suspiciously quiet, however, even once he was on the mend. He would answer a direct question, said 'please' and 'thank you', but try as he might, Dean couldn't get his little brother to engage in any real conversation. He'd tried bringing up Lake Manitoc, and what had happened with Peter, but Sam would only shake his head tiredly, turning his face away and going back to sleep.

Or pretending to anyway.

Dean had tried everything else he could think of, trying to get Sam to talk about what classes he hoped his next school would have, asking him about the nerdy mythology book Sam had been reading before the shit hit the proverbial fan, hell, he even tried to get Sam to talk about politics.

Dean hated politics, thought politicians were all liars, that voting and the judicial system and everything else of that nature was nothing but organized crime.

Dean was all for personal freedom, but in his opinion, that meant he didn't have to personally get involved with a system he felt impacted him very little anyway.

It drove Sam crazy, that Dean could somehow manage to not have an opinion on things like immigration, tax breaks for big business, or the atmosphere.

Or at least it used to.

But no matter what Dean tried, Sam simply wouldn't play ball. He shrug his shoulders, eyes anywhere but on Dean. Or he'd answer with monosyllables, "yes", "no" and Dean's personal, all time favorite, "Fine."

He didn't seem to be angry, though, or sad or scared or anything else that Dean could see. He just seemed...empty.

Dean refused to dwell on it too much, choosing to believe that Sam would bounce back, that the strain of their last hunt on top of Sam's illness would be enough to take anyone out of commission for a while.

He chose not to think about how strange Sam had been acting before they'd ever gotten to Lake Manitoc, how strange he'd been acting since Dean had left to help Caleb with his ghoul problem.

Everything would work out, because it had to.

Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural

Sam opened his eyes with a grimace, closing them quickly again as the early morning sunlight sent a shooting stab of pain through his tender head. The fever combined with the non-stop coughing, concussion and hairline stitches had lead to Sam taking more headache medicine in the past few weeks than he had in perhaps the whole rest of his life.

Tentatively, he cracked open one eye lid, verifying, as he's suspected, that Dean had laid a fresh dose of pain killers and antibiotics next to a glass of water on the nightstand before he'd laid down a few hours ago.

Flexing his hand experimentally, he deemed his grip as steady enough to handle the glass of water, and he eased his arm out from under the blanket. Grasping the handful of pills, he dry swallowed them, almost gagging because of the dryness of his throat. He gulped a too-large gulp of water reflexively, which, naturally brought on that mornings first (of no doubt many) rounds of coughing.

After a few moments, he got his breath back, glad Dean appeared to be out of the room for the moment. John had left several days ago, to get started on the hunt in Jericho, California. Dean had seemed a little nonplussed at John's leaving so soon after everything that has happened with Sam, but Sam couldn't really find it in him to be surprised.

If he was honest with himself, he was more surprised that John had helped save him, those two times at the lake. He could only assume John had done it for Dean's sake.

Slow and ungraceful, he levered himself to a sitting position, placing his bare feet against the chill of the floor. Slightly more alert now, he saw the note on the table, Dean's untidy scrawl marching across the paper like grim little soldiers.

"Went for some supplies. Back in a hour. CALL ME IF YOU HAVE ANY PROBLEMS!"

The word "any" had half a dozen lines under it for emphasis, and Sam blew out a long breath. His plan to keep his cold on the down low had obviously failed, as had his plan to prove to Dean and John that he was a capable hunter, a useful hunter.

Dean and John had needed to rescue Sam no less then three times back at the lake, and Sam was furious with himself. He couldn't be weak like that any more.

He couldn't afford to be sad or mad or scared, or weak.

Being weak meant the monsters won.

He eyed the distance from his bed to the bathroom speculatively.

God, he felt gross. And the humidity of the shower might help his chest loosen up a little.

Deciding to chance it, he rose unsteadily, leaning against the wall for a moment to catch his balance. Once he was pretty sure the furniture and walls were all were they were supposed to be, he started forward, still favoring his bad knee.

He could already feel his shaking as his fever threatened to return, brought on by his exertion, but that only made Sam more determined to get his shower before Dean returned and hustled him back into bed like a sick child.

Once upon a time, the care Dean would shower Sam with whenever he was ill had would make Sam feel loved and cared for, filling in the gaping space left in his life by a murdered mother and an absent father.

But now that Sam knew the truth, knew that he was responsible for the death of his mother, knew he was the reason his father stayed away so often, Dean's attention felt dirty somehow, tarnished, or maybe it was Sam that dirty and undeserving.

Whatever the reason, Sam felt like squirming under Dean's careful ministrations, felt like edging away from every touch, any bit of affection. He didn't deserve it, and it would only make it harder for Sam to deal with what he now knew.

Finally, after what felt like decades, he reached the bathroom. Pushing the bathroom door closed behind him, he gratefully locked it, relishing his first bit of privacy in weeks.

Momentarily exhausted, he collapsed onto to closed lid to the toilet, catching his breath in whistling gasps. When he regained a little bit of his strength, he slowly stood again, shedding his sweaty clothes, wrinkling his nose at the thought of how long he must have been wearing them.

Dean took good care of Sam when he was sick, Sam would never say otherwise, but Dean's opinion of just what constituted as clean differed greatly from Sam's.

Scowling at his greasy hair in the mirror, he leaned down to turn on the water. Swaying a little with a momentary head rush, he forced a deep breath and turned the water on, as hot as it could go.

Steam gathered quickly in the chilly room, and Sam felt his skin prickle with gooseflesh as he gave the water another moment to get actually hot. Dean had mentioned gleefully that for once John had stashed them away in a room with a decent water heater, and Sam was grateful for that tidbit of information now.

Stepping under the spray, he let out a sigh so deep in segued into a cough. Feeling his tension start to melt away under the warm needles of water, he slid down to the bottom of the shower, too tired to stand anymore and to stubborn to get out.

His shampoo was a million miles away at the other end of the tub, and Sam didn't particularly care about that either. He wanted to just sit there under the hot spray for the rest of his life, letting the hot water wash everything away, his illness, his memories of the last several weeks, heck, he'd let it was away his whole life if he could, walk out of the bathroom shiny and new and no longer Sam Winchester.

But Sam knew that no matter how hot he got the water, it could never reach the stain deep inside him, the taint of darkness he imagined sometimes he could see crawling up his arms, under his skin, dancing along his veins like poison. When he looked in the mirror, he'd search his features, search his eyes for some glimpse of the monster living under his skin.

He tilted his head up, into the spray, so he could pretend away the tears, since he couldn't pretend away the darkness.

Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural

Dean opened the door as quietly as he could, juggling his keys and the small bag of groceries. All attempts at silence were quickly abandoned at the sight of Sam's empty bed, and he felt a momentary sense of panic.

Hearing the shower going a second later, though, he relaxed slightly, going over to the mini-fridge and quickly unloading the juice and Gatorade he'd bought, along with the sandwich meat.

Straightening, he walked quickly over to the bathroom door, attempting to turn it without a second's thought. Scowling when he discovered it was locked, he rolled his eyes at Sam's ridiculousness.

Dean had changed the kids diapers, for Christ's sake, hell, he'd taught him to aim, and now Sam was self-conscious?

"Yo, Sammy, how ya doing?" Dean hollered, banging on the door. He frowned when he didn't get a response.

"SAM!" He raised his voice, banging once more. "You still alive?"

He gave it another few seconds, counting silently to ten in his head before using one elbow to force the flimsy door open. Steam poured out of the bathroom, and Dean frowned when he realized that Sam probably had the water turned so hot because his fever was back.

Crossing the small room in only two steps, he pulled the curtain back. Eyes widening when he saw his brother, pale and still, sitting on the floor of the tub, he leaned forward, heedless of the needling spray of the hot water.

"Sammy!" He cried, snagging Sam by one wet shoulder.

"What?" Sam jerked, eyes wide and hands coming up instinctively, and Dean realized with a relieved amusement bordering on annoyance that the kid had somehow managed to fall asleep under the comfort of the warm water.

Scowling, he said "Seriously, dude? You think this is the place for a nap?"

Sam looked back at him blankly for a moment, before responding, "Honestly, I thought it was a place for some privacy." He blinked disjointedly, giving his head a little shake to wake himself up more, and Dean tried not to feel the sting of rejection. He reminded himself that he'd startled the still sick kid, and Sam had been notoriously private about his body for a while now.

He shook his head, backing up. "Finish up before you lose hot water, Sam, you got the thing set hotter than hell as it is. If you're well enough to shower, you can eat some real food."

"Sure, Dean. Fine, whatever, just...go." He gestured, looking at Dean like Dean was crazy and Dean just shrugged again and left the room, leaving the broken door cracked in case Sam needed him.

With Sam's luck, they'd be having a good day if the kid managed not to drown in the shower.

Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural

Sam let out a frustrated breath as Dean finally retreated.

Of course he hadn't meant to fall asleep in the shower, but that didn't mean Dean needed to just let himself in. He'd practically climbed into the tub with Sam and then looked hurt when Sam hinted that he wanted privacy.

He shook his head again as he finished rinsing conditioner from his hair.

Dean had never really had a good sense of boundaries when it came to Sam. Most of the time, Sam took it in stride. Living in one room motels, sleeping in the same bed, camping out in the Impala, they couldn't really help but be in each others personal space all the time.

And Dean had spent sixteen years cooking, cleaning and doing just about everything else for Sam, so it wasn't particularly surprising that he wouldn't think twice about coming in the bathroom to check on his sick brother, naked or not.

But now that Sam knew just how different he really was from Dean, their former closeness stung, rubbed in the fact that though Dean might be inherently good (Sam was, in fact sure this was the case, had never doubted Dean's essential goodness), Sam was something else.

Sam didn't want his darkness to destroy Dean the way he was already sure it would destroy him.

Thinking back to the strange things that had happened to him during their last hunt, Sam thought perhaps the darkness was already rising up in him, drawing the monsters to him.

Looking into the mirror, he wiped away the condensation, searching again for the evil that crept through his veins.

It was one thing if the darkness meant the monsters came after him. Sam had accepted that he was in for a bloody end. Villains didn't get happy endings, and Sam wasn't made of the stuff of heroes.

Quite the contrary, in fact.

But the moment Sam thought his darkness endangered his brother, he'd put a bullet in his brain, cardinal sin or not.

If the demons getting their hands on Sam early meant Dean didn't get dragged down with him, he'd do it without hesitation.

He owed it to Dean, for taking care of him, for being the reason Dean didn't have a home.

For being the reason Dean didn't have a mother.

No. Sam wouldn't hesitate.

Once it had been a matter of choosing between his brother or a bullet, but now Sam knew how much worse the story's ending could actually be.

It might turn out that the only way to choose his brother would be to choose the bullet.

And suicides went to hell.

Especially kids with demon blood in them.