All Grace Abounds

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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Chapter 3

As his eyes scanned the motel's snow covered parking lot and the road beyond, Sam understood the true plight he would have getting to Dean. The lot didn't contain a single vehicle which he could liberate and the road was pitifully void of opportunities to hitch a ride…with anyone. His long legs taking him to the lobby, Sam entered to find a teenage girl manning the check-in desk.

Fixing on a smile of greeting, Sam asked, "Hey, do you know a local taxi service or .."

The girl's snort interrupted Sam's flow of words. "Taxi?! Around here? You're in the hicks! You'd be hard pressed to find anyone in this town who's ridden in a taxi!"

Trying not to be disheartened, Sam pressed forward, resuming his smile, though its sincerity had diminished. "Alright, well, I need to get to the hospital. My brother…" but he faltered, discovering that he was wholly unprepared to explain, even to this teenage girl, the need that burned through him to be with his big brother. "He…uh…was in a car accident," he stammered out the lie, instantly jeering himself internally. 'Yeah, smooth Sam, like a schoolboy caught out past curfew. Can't wait to hear what you say to Dean when he asks why you scrambled to his side… during a freakin' snow storm… after he said he wasn't hurt." Hard on the heels of that thought his inner voice mimicked his brother's words and mocking tone. 'Yeah, work on that comeback, college boy.' Whatever irritation that should have surged through him at the way his brother had insinuated himself in his head, never cameNo, instead what it inspired in him was a longing to hear Dean's voice, his rare choice of words, his ridicule, live and in person.

Oblivious to Sam's lie, the girl drawled, taking a strand of her long brown hair and twisting it around her finger, "He shouldna been driving in weather like this."

"Yeah, well, I really need to get to the hospital," Sam countered, refusing to agree with the girl, aloud anyway.

"Don't look at me, I don't have a car. My dad dropped me off here, made me work since school was closed," her displeasure at her father unmasked.

Frustrated at his lack of options, Sam spun around and exited the lobby, using more force on the door than was necessary. Unmindful of the ankle deep snow, he walked across the parking lot, his heart dropping as he took in the empty length of country road stretching out for a good mile in both directions.

Ten miles. That was what separated him from Dean. As snow turned his hair white and littered the already coated ground, Sam stepped into the center of the two lane road, his ears straining for the sound of a vehicle, of a plow, of a snowmobile, heck, even of a horse and sleigh. But silence superimposed the world as effectively as the white precipitation and Sam hated them both.

'Chill out. Dean's not in danger. He's not even hurt,' Sam tried to reassure himself, but almost instantly he contradicted every conviction he fought to hold. 'Not hurt, according to Dean. You know, the guy who said he was OK after some sickos branded his shoulder, the guy who insisted that he could walk on his own even though his heart was giving out on him. Yeah, that guy.'

Sighing, Sam squinted more desperately in both directions of the road, unwilling to even internally express his reactions to the tremble he heard in his brother's voice minutes ago, a tremble that had nothing to do with physical pain. Sadly, that was the bad news. Physical pain, now that was something Sam knew Dean could work through, had time and again. Far too often and with levels of pain that were far too severe.

No, the tremble in Dean's usually strong voice was cruel evidence of another layer of emotional scarring being seared into his brother's soul. Scarring, pain, that Dean internalized, seemingly accepted as some warranted punishment, that chipped away at his vulnerable heart, which he could not or would not harden, or safeguard. Long ago, before Stanford, before Sam sought an escape from the Winchester way of life, before his father had ceased to be a hero in his youngest son's eyes, before anyone beyond their family of three held any interest to Sam, the younger brother had vowed to protect his older brother. To protect him where he was most vulnerable: In his heart.

A heart that bled in silence when their father's words struck a seemingly mortal blow, that locked away all the scars that hunting wrought, that remembered all the things Dean would never talk about, like Mom and praying before going to bed. That was irreparably damaged by the betrayal of his innocence, of a belief that the world was fair, that if you were good, good things would happen to you, that if you loved someone, they'd never leave you.

Tears sprang to Sam's eyes, though it was no fault of the stinging, icy wind. 'I have to be there for him! It's my job to be there for him! Please, I need help, I need to get to the hospital.' But no vehicles miraculously appeared on the road, no sleighs slid out from the woods, no sound heralded an answer to his prayers. Biting his lip, he stood there a moment more, hope dying with each snow flake that fell, with the continued quiet. Defeated, Sam spun around and stalked back to their room, knowing that even trekking to the nearest house on foot would require that he was dressed more warmly.

Unlocking the motel room door, he quickly entered, stripped off his coat and yanked out a button-down shirt and a sweatshirt from his bag. Pulling the sweatshirt over the two layers of shirts that he already wore, he slipped on the button down shirt over top before he put on his coat again, wishing he had gotten his gloves out of the Impala's trunk. Knowing that he had done what he could to prepare for his frozen hike, he zipped up his coat and headed for the door, the sight of Dean's gloves on the small table catching his eyes. 'You didn't even take your gloves!' Sam reprimanded his brother silently as he snatched the gloves from the table before he exited the room.

His head down as he drew Dean's gloves over his fingers, Sam started as a male voice spoke. "Can you get the door for me?"

Sam's head snapped up to see a man in his fifties holding a ladder, looking to Sam as he nodded his head to the door to room 7. But even more happily, Sam took in the sight of the man's 1967 truck parked only a few feet away. The man's repeat of his request dictated that Sam draw his hungry eyes away from the truck and back to the truck's soon to be previous owner.

"Ah, yeah," Sam stammered, coming forward, turning the door knob to room 7 and pushing it open, his eyes again falling on the truck as the man bearing the ladder entered the room. Snatching the truck wasn't going to go unnoticed, not with the man just inside the room, not when the truck was the only vehicle within miles and the world seemed to have succumbed to a mute command. No, charm and utter desperation would have to be his first tools, deception and grand theft auto a close second.

Stepping into the doorway of the room, Sam saw that the room was filled not with motel furniture but boxes, fire proof filing cabinets and over in the far corner, a desk and a chair, above which hung a picture, the room's one solitary decoration. Watching the man set up the ladder below the room's unlit overhead light, Sam spoke, "I need help. My brother…he's at the hospital," somehow it didn't feel right lying to this man, this stranger even as he contemplated his next action should option 1 fail, namely locking the man in the room and hotwiring his truck.

The man's blue eyes swung to him, concern in their depths, the ladder forgotten. "What kind of help?" his voice not wary but gentle.

"I…I don't have a way to get there.. to the hospital. He…he was driving our car …and the girl at the desk said you don't have any taxis around here," chagrined at the way he was rambling on, the way his breath hitched to a halt all of a sudden.

Without a word, the man approached Sam, pulled the door closed and walked to the truck. The older man had opened his driver's side door before he sighted on the tall young man that still stood by room 7, a look of surprise on his handsome features. "Well, we best get you there. You the younger one or is he?"
"I am," Sam automatically replied as he ran to the passenger side door and clambered into the truck as the older man slid behind the steering wheel.

Starting the engine, the older man smiled to Sam, "Then we better get a move on, son. Older brothers are wily ones, more likely to slip from the doctor's clutches and be walking home than be beholding to their little brother."

A smirk turned up Sam's lips, maybe this man knew Dean personally. Settling back in the old truck's seat, Sam felt some of the tension fall away. He was going to get to Dean, going to be there when his brother needed him, whether the stubborn jerk wanted him there or not.

The going was slow but the man handled the car like a cowpoke handled a mustang, keeping a tight reign on her and gentling her down when she seemed to contemplate shutting down altogether by easing up on the gas. Sam let silence hang in the car, not willing to distract the man's attention from the treacherous terrain, unable to draw his own thoughts away from his brother.

When the engine sputtered for the fifth time but didn't falter, the man shot Sam a look of reassurance, "She'll make her there. Just likes to complain about the cold."

"I really appreciate this. I'll gladly pay you for your trouble and your gas," Sam earnestly offered, ashamed he hadn't spoken his gratitude before then.

"No need. Folks doing what they can for each other, it's what makes the world a place I like," the man drawled, his focus on the road, the windshield wipers doing little to clear up the visibility as the snow fell harder. "This brother of yours, he hurt bad?" shooting Sam a quick glance before he returned his full attention to the white expansion that, in better days, was a blacktop road.

Sam hesitated, wondering what the man's reaction would be if he told the truth, well Dean's truth. He wondered if the man would send him a scowl and turn the truck around, determining that the risk, the trouble to get to the hospital for this stranger's brother that wasn't even hurt wasn't worth it. "He said he wasn't," Sam opted for the truth, of sorts, leaving interpretation up to his Good Samaritan.

"Sounds like you don't believe him?" the man questioned quietly, but Sam noted his eyes didn't swivel from the road, didn't lance him with accusation.

Straightening in the seat, Sam looked out the side window at the white world he could see going by. "Dean tends to downplay things."

"So you gotta keep a sharp eye on him, watch out for him. I admire that."

Sam's head snapped around to face the stranger, surprise registering in his every facial expression, at the man's perceptiveness, understanding, and praise. "He does the same for me…and more." 'Much much more.'

"It's the way of brothers, of family, taking care of each other, soldiering through the stuff of life at each others side, you having faith when he doesn't and vise versa," the man clarified.

Sam drew in a sharp breath, unprepared to have the word faith woven into the man's description of his relationship with Dean, of family, of brotherhood. Faith was too fresh a wound, too unstable a concept after everything that had just happened. So it was a surprise to hear his own low and hoarse voice ask, "You think faith is important, that one should have some…in something."

This earned him the man's full eye contact for a startled moment before the road reclaimed his sense of sight. When he spoke, his words were gentle. "Life's a bleak thing without faith, without hope in good. Me, I like happy endings, like the silver linings, had my fair share of both. Figure the least I can do is say thank you by believing in the big Guy responsible for it all. He don't ask much really, not compared to all the good He's laid at my door."

Before Sam could fully process the older man's words of wisdom, the truck came to a halt.

"Well, here we are. You going to be Ok getting back to the motel?" the man said with true concern in his eyes.

Looking to his left, Sam could see the hospital, the emergency entrance only a few yards away. Turning back to the stranger, Sam answered, "Yeah, I'll be fine." Then he began reaching into his pocket to pull out his wallet, to repay the man's kindness in the only way he could. The man's callused hand patted his hand.

"I don't want a thing, just glad I could help you. I'll put in a good word for you and your brother with the big Guy."

"Thanks, I…thank you," Sam stuttered, wishing there was more he could say, could express how grateful he was for the man getting him to Dean, for talking to him about Dean, about brotherhood and faith. Coming up empty for words, Sam simply nodded his head, leaped down from the truck, shut the door, gave a wave to the stranger and ran lightly for the emergency entrance.

Running his hand through his hair to dislodge the snow that managed to coat his thick locks during his small jaunt to the door, Sam stalked into the emergency room. As he took in his surroundings, he was surprised to find his breath catching in his lungs, his heart thudding quickly in his chest, to feel dread rip into his gut like the sharpest of knives. Winchesters were no strangers to hospitals, were more intimate with their procedures than any non medical personnel should be. So before he even exited the Good Samaritan's truck, Sam knew what he was walking into, what he would smell in the ER, how charged the air would be with pain and fear, that he would be greeted with the sight of the ill and injured scattered about the waiting room and patient cubicles beyond. But what he hadn't counted on, what he had not reconciled, were his memories, memories of the last time he had been in a hospital. Unmercifully, vivid snapshots of another hospital assailed him, pictures too sharp, too wounding, of Dean lying so still in a hospital bed, breathing only because machines dictated that he breathe, of his father, on the floor, dying.

Stopping his forward motion, Sam took a deep fortifying breath. Forcing his internal slide show to fade to black, he harshly reminded himself that Dean wasn't dying anymore, wasn't even hurt this time around, which, in the Winchester book, was a miracle in and of itself. Having regained some of his equilibrium, Sam started forward again, pulling his hands free of the gloves as his sharp eyes scanned the occupants of the waiting room, searching for the sight that would quell the irrational fear that remained coiled around his heart.

But when Sam was rewarded with the sight of his brother, his dread skyrocketed, causing him to stumble to a halt. Sitting in the yellow, chipped, plastic chair, bent forward, his head down, one hand gripping the base of his neck, Dean Winchester had never looked so dejected.

Worry, fear and pain shifted through Sam as he crossed the distance to his brother in two seconds flat. "Dean?" he gently beckoned, crouching down in front of his brother, his hand falling onto the other man's knee, establishing a physical connection for Dean as much as for himself. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sam cataloged the coldness of his brother's denim jeans under his hand.

Slowly, Dean raised his head, his eyes blinking to focus. Registering the appearance of his brother, Dean, shaking off his defeated demeanor, sat up in the chair. Dropping his hand to rest in his lap, he demanded, "Dude, what are you doing here?"

"Thought you could use some company," Sam quickly replied without reservations, the time he had fretted about the answer wasted as other concerns overshadowed his worry at Dean's response, namely the sight of blood on his brother's face. "You said you weren't hurt?!" Sam gently accused, his hand coming up to try and inspect the cut on his brother's forehead, barely making contact before Dean pulled away from his touch.

"How'd you get here?" Dean interrogated, sitting back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Sam, crouched in front of him, still trying to grasp the notion that Sam was there, had somehow made it there without a car, in a snow storm.

Sam shrugged as if it was no big deal, his tone laced with the same nonchalance. "Begged a ride from the motel's maintenance man." But his sharp eyes were assessing the cut above his brother's brow, marking the blood dried on Dean's too flushed face, noting his brother's seemingly wet hair. And he could feel the slight trembling of Dean's cold leg under his hand. But worst of all was the shadow in the eyes Sam knew so well, eyes that flickered away from him, telling him that there were things Dean was not saying, hurts he was unprepared to reveal, even to his brother.

So, contrary to his tone of voice, detachment was the very last thing thrumming through Sam, not when all the evidence said that Dean had lied, dreadfully. He was hurt, both physically and emotionally, was in dire need of the company of his brother, whether he would ever admit that aloud or not.

Struggling to be the rock Sam believed him to be, Dean quirked, "I leave you alone for an hour and you're begging rides off of strangers. I thought I raised you better than that. You steal their car, Sammy." Shaking his head slightly, Dean groused lightly, "I'm starting to feel like my words of wisdom were wasted on you."

"Not all of them," Sam quietly refuted, his tender gaze latching onto Dean's green eyes, remembering what his brother had always stressed since they were both children. "We watch each other's backs, Sammy. Dad protects us and we protect him and we protect each other. That's more important than anything else during a hunt." Sam could still remember his nine year old response, "But Dad says the most important thing is making my shot count, of keeping my game face on."

"Ah..yeah… well that's the first rule of hunting, Sammy. But having each other's backs, that's the first rule in life, ranks above any of Dad's other rules. You got me?"

'Yeah, I got you, big brother,' the here and now Sam thought determinedly, fully prepared to stand at his brother's back and defend him to the death.

Under Sam's scrutiny, Dean fought hard to ward off the shiver that threatened to wrack through his still too cold body. Hoping to cover up the reaction, he fidgeted forward half an inch before sitting up straighter in the chair as the shiver moved through his body like a shockwave.

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed in worried alarm as he saw his brother's body tremble, felt the ripple of the shiver shake Dean's knee where his left hand still rested. Instantly, Sam raised his right hand to cup the side of Dean's face, startled at the coldness of his brother's flesh, his eyes going wild with worry and accusation. "Dean, you're freezing!" he accused a moment before his fingers ran through Dean's hair with a feathery touch. "And your hair's wet!" his tone going subzero, even as his eyes blazed like a white hot flame into Dean's gaze.

Latching his hand around Sam's wrist, Dean pulled his brother's hand from his nearly frozen hair. "I'm fine, Sam," Dean reassured, seemingly oblivious to the way the words almost stammered from his suddenly chattering jaw, to the shiver that wracked his body again, to the coldness of his skin that nearly had the power to hurt Sam's fingers.

"No, you're not, Dean," Sam protested, his voice edging toward a plea for his brother's capitulation. As he started to slip his hand from his brother grip, Sam saw a wince of pain flash across his brother's usual poker face. Before the physical bond could be broken, Sam closed his hand, gently imprisoning Dean's hand. As his palm fully connected with Dean's, Sam felt the unnaturally rough texture of his brother's palm, felt the painful frigidness of the skin in his grasp, knew unerringly that what now coated his own hand was blood, Dean's blood. His worried eyes shot up to Dean's in surprise. The resigned look in his brother's eyes only confirmed Sam's dread.

Sighing, Dean allowed Sam to turn his hand over, watched Sam's profile, saw his brother's features harden into angry concern as he got his first look at his cut and blood stained hand. He didn't even offer up a protest when Sam made the mental addition and quickly snagged his other hand, discovering the matching wounds there. Sam always knew where to find his hurts, on his body and in his heart, the trait both a curse and a blessing to Dean.

Holding Dean's torn hand in his own, Sam winced in sympathy as his deft fingers traced the jagged cuts on his brother's callused flesh. Somewhere in his sharp mind, Sam recalled that Dean had said the kid had been caught in an animal trap, a trap whose merciless teeth could inflict this type of damage on his brother's flesh. When he looked up, Sam's eyes clashed with Dean's calm gaze. "How long have you been waiting for a doctor to see you, Dean?" a dangerous edge to his voice as he asked the question he already knew the answer to.

"I didn't come here for myself, Sam," Dean snapped, yanking his hands from Sam's hold, and pulling back as far from Sam as the chair allowed. Just because Sam could locate his hurts didn't mean he could heal them, didn't mean Dean wanted him to heal them. Pain was all cause and effect, was a punishment meted out to the foolish, to the weak, to screwups who failed at every turn. It was nothing short of what he deserved. 'And if Kyle doesn't make it'….he couldn't finish the thought, not if he wanted to keep it together, to not break in front of Sammy. Then his eyes scampered away from Sam's, fixing on the other occupants of the ER.

'No, course you didn't come here for you. Taking care of yourself is pretty low on the totem pole,' Sam sadly realized, shook his head, drew in a deep breath of air as his frustration threatened to control him. With Dean, it was always about other people's safety, not his own, never his own. 'How many times do I have to get that fact shoved in my face before I just accept it?!' His reply was instantaneous. 'Never.' Because acceptance seemed too close to approving, to giving Dean the green light to disregard his own life, his own health. And that was something Sam would never condone, no matter whose life hung in the balance. 'Or had hung in the balance,' his thoughts on his father, on his father's sacrifice, a sacrifice Dean despised …and Sam treasured.

After a moment of scowling, Sam begrudgingly let his frustration give way to pride and love for his brother's compassion. Though he would never stop railing against Dean's selflessness, there was no way he would ever belittle the grave sacrifices Dean had made in this life, for their father, for him. Taking in the vulnerable slump of Dean's shoulders, the downward focus of his brother's gaze, the shiver that sent the usually stoical body twitching, Sam posed his question with honest concern, "So how's the kid doing? Is he going to be alright?" Found he was holding his breath for the answer, sensing that Dean's well being was interwoven with the boy's fate.

Dean gave a shrug and swallowed, his eyes meeting and then scampering away from Sam's too keen gaze, fighting to keep the memory of the blood stained snow from flashing in his mind, to quiet the sound of Kyle's scared voice that echoed in his head, to override his nature to compare his failings to keep Sam safe with Kyle's own predicament. 'Kyle's not Sammy,' he repeated like a mantra. 'Sam's fine. Sam's right here with you, unhurt. You didn't fail him…' but the one word tagged onto his affirmation '…yet.' The very possibility of that failure started to crumble the wall he hid behind, to make him stumble on the journey he had undertaken, along whose trial he kept Sam at his back, protecting him even as he latched onto his wrist, propelling them both always forward, determined to find the way, to not get lost on the rocky path, to find the light, to be free, to be safe.

Receiving a non verbal reply from Dean, of watching his so strong brother shy away from him, of feeling the pain, the hurt, the vulnerability emanating from a soul usually barracked behind reinforced steel, Sam winced as his heart panged in pain, as helplessness soured his stomach. Recriminations flared in him. 'If only Dean and I hadn't fought today! If we had stayed together…Or better yet, not come here, fallen for this snipe hunt!' Then Dean wouldn't be here, wouldn't be hurt, wouldn't have his soul bared, vulnerable and lacerated over some kid, some kid he'd never met before today, a kid Sam had never laid eyes on. It was wrong, that some stranger could hurt Dean so fully, that Dean could care so deeply to allow it, had opened himself up to this level of harm …when he barricaded Sam out time and time again. 'Like I'm the enemy.'

Struggling to not let resentment clamor in his heart, Sam patted Dean's knee, "Come on, go to the bathroom, get cleaned up," striving to make his tone light, as he placed his hand under Dean's biceps, set to help the older man to his feet. Reading Dean's clenched jaw as a forewarning to his refusal, Sam pulled out his best little brother tone. "Please Dean," the plead easily achieved as another shiver ran through Dean, reminding Sam of the way Dean had trembled in his hold after his heart attack, when walking was too much for his once invincible brother, when Dean's every breath was a conscious act, a blessing not to be taken for granted.

"Ah, come on Sammy," Dean whined only to be pierced by the emotions reflected in Sam's eyes, fear for him, love for him. Coming to his feet, Dean internally griped about Sam's hold over him even as warmth flared to life inside him, weakening the wave of shivers that thrummed across his nervous system a moment later.

As the shiver rippled through Dean, Sam stepped closer to Dean, his grip tightening on the muscled arm in his grasp, his fear palpable. It earned him Dean's unflinching gaze, incited the ever resilient protective older brother to make an appearance.

"I'm Ok, Sam," Dean drawled gently, "just cold."

"And wet and hurt and bleeding and worried …." Sam countered, his tone thick as the words rushed from him, expressing what his eyes had been telling Dean from the start, that Sam was concerned, was scared, that he hurt when Dean hurt. Swallowing audibly, Sam let the last category go unqualified, sensing that it was the booby trapped subject, where trespassers wouldn't be tolerated.

Putting his energy to good use, Sam did a visual sweep of his surroundings and found that the bathrooms were down the right hall. "This way," he said, jutting his chin to the right as he steered Dean down the hall, unnerved at his older brother's quiet submission. The act was too reminiscent of the quiet trek they had made back to Dean's hospital bed…after their father had died, with Sam's arms wrapped around Dean, supporting the body that had been in the grips of a coma, of death only hours before. And Sam remembered, that with every fiber of strength he possessed, he clutched onto Dean's soul, onto a soul shattered and scarred, resolved to not lose Dean, to never lose Dean.

Now that resolve flared in him again, hard and implacable. Whatever happened today, they would face it together, would weather the storm side by side. His brother's words echoed in his heart, "We watch each other's backs, Sammy. We protect each other." 'Yeah, yeah we do Dean. To the death.' "You know you look like crap Dean. Your chances of picking up a nurse are nil," he teased aloud, needing to hear Dean's comeback, to see some sparkle glimmer in his brother's too serious eyes.

Knowing what Sam wanted from him, Dean dredged up a smirk, "You always underestimate the Dean charm, Sammy. Two nurses hit on me in the waiting room."
"Riiiighhhtttt.." Sam drawled sarcastically, "Were they asking if you were an organ donor or who your next of kin was?"

Sam's comeback spurred an honest to goodness snort of laughter from Dean. "Oh, good one, college boy. You take a course on witty insults…"

"No, I was raised by a smart mouthed brother," Sam tossed back, humor in his voice and affection in his eyes as he pushed his older brother forward, prepared to patch up that smart mouthed brother in a bathroom, with nonexistent supplies. Which were standard operating procedures, really, if you were a Winchester.

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TBC

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Thanks for reading!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.

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