Disclaimer: Mine! Mine mine mine!!! …..No they're not. If they were, none of you would even know of them….

Warnings: Angst, swearing, Winchester abuse. And bad editing on my behalf

Author's note: One more chappie after this folks (that has yet to be written) and then the epilogue. Any ideas suggestions or requests should be made before then! All will be taken into consideration!

Oh, and just an idea I had, if any one is interested, I'll be posting a soundtrack for this story on my profile page once this is finished. It will be composed of songs that inspired the writing of this fic. So once the epilogue is posted, head on over and check it out.

Chapter Sixteen: Ride Across the River

Your warm whispers
Out of the dark they carry my heart
Your warm whispers
Into the dawn they carry me through
And I'm weeping warm honey and milk
That you stay surrounding me, surrounding me

- Warm Whispers by Missy Higgins

They'd been stuck in the hospital for a week and a half. He had been awake for three days, but he remembered very little of what had taken place during those days. It was strange. He had lost almost two weeks of his life. Where there should have been memories, there was just nothing. And that was something that frightened him more than anything.

He had nightmares about it. All that hollowness haunted him, and was constantly lingering on his mind because it reminded him so much of the Wraith. He didn't want to be empty because that was what it had felt like when the Wraith had been feeding off him and it was one of the scariest things he had ever faced.

But what was scarier than that was the fact that he had been ready to die. He had wanted it, accepted it and had been prepared to pass on and now he didn't know where that left him. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel about it.

His father was barely around, and that made him ache with renewed betrayal. The man drifted in and out, staying for a few minutes one time and a few hours the next. He had said he was busy researching, trying to find answers for what had happened, but Sam knew the truth.

It was because he was unclean. Tainted because of what he had brought upon the family. He could see it in the way people looked at him. Pitied him.

"Hey."

Sam turned his head to look at Dean, who was sitting in the middle of his own bed throwing gummy bears up in the air and attempting to catch them in his mouth.

"Whatcha doing over there, Sam-o?"

Sam blinked at him for a moment before returning his gaze to the plainest, most boring ceiling he had ever laid eyes on. At least in motels they had stains or patterns on them that provided a small measure of entertainment.

"Just thinking."

The TV blared in the background, and the noise was making his head pound. But he didn't ask Dean to turn it down because then it would be quiet, and silence set him on edge.

"What have I told you about that Sammy? You're brains too small to handle it," Dean grinned at him around a mouthful of gummy bears. His eyes were twinkling with triumph and mirth. Sam made an effort to smile at Deans antics and his attempts to cheer him up. At least everything was back to good in Dean's eyes.

Sam hated it when Dean was sad and if Dean was happy then Sam didn't want to be the one to bring him down.

"Must be why you stopped doing it, then," he replied.

"Ohhh, harsh." Dean cackled. "Hey, you reckon they'd let us have a race down the hallway in our wheelchairs?"

"Doubt it."

Dean flopped onto his back and mimicked Sam in staring at the ceiling. He sighed loudly and Sam waited, wondering what Dean was thinking.

Dean found it near impossible to be awake and not doing something. Whether it be talking or annoying Sam, he was never still, and never silent for long.
"Pity. This place could use some laughter. Everybody's so serious."

"It's a hospital, Dean," Sam pointed out, trying to summon up an ounce of the annoyance that he would have felt before. "People die here."

And I wanted to as well, i think, he thought to himself. He still couldn't bring himself to feel sad about the prospect of dying. It wasn't normal he was sure. The doctors had sent in the therapist again once he had truly woken up, but he hadn't been able to think of a single thing to say. He had just sat there staring at his hands and listening as the quack sitting beside him had droned on and on about post traumatic distress syndrome, and depression. All this medical terminology that had meant nothing to him, and had gone in one ear and out the other.

Was that what this was? Was he depressed like they all said? He wasn't so sure. He didn't feel sad, or like he wanted to slit his wrists or something drastic like that.

Which brought him to another point.

"What story did dad tell the doctors?" he asked suddenly.

Dean pushed himself up onto his elbows and looked over at him. At first he looked surprised, but the surprise quickly subsided and gave way to worry. He chewed his lips and Sam met his eyes evenly.

"Sam..." Dean began, reluctantly.

"Please," he interrupted. "I want to know."

"They told me not to bother you with..."

Sam rolled onto his side with difficulty to look over at Dean tiredly. His casted leg made it difficult, and not in the least pain free, but the pain let him know that he was still alive, at least. Still breathing, even if he wasn't supposed to be.

"Do you feel sorry for me just like everyone else does?" he asked. "I don't need that. Not from you. I need the truth."

Still Dean hesitated for a moment, still chewing on his lower lip. Sam watched as he lowered himself back down and rolled onto his side to face him. The gap between them felt as wide as the English channel, and Sam had never felt so cut off from Dean. Even though there was only a few steps between their beds it might as well have been half a world.

"Dad told them that we were mucking around in an abandoned factory and that we ran into trouble with a bunch of older kids," Dean admitted eventually. "They bought it well enough. Cops said that they've had trouble with a bunch of kids from a town over for awhile now."

Sam wasn't sure how to feel about that. He wanted to feel relieved but he couldn't quite summon the energy.

"Oh."

Sam closed his eyes and tried to come up with something, anything in response to that revelation but there was just...nothing.

"Sam? You okay over there?" Dean's voice was uncertain but Sam couldn't bring himself to reassure him. He wanted someone to hurt like he wanted to hurt, but he didn't want it to be Dean. It'd be best if Sam just...disappeared somehow. At least then his brother wouldn't be tainted like he was.

After a few minutes, he heard the rustle of sheets followed by the sound of bare feet on the linoleum floor. He jumped in surprise but made no move to get away when a warm body settled on the bed next to him. He didn't open his eyes, but he knew that Dean was lying facing him. Warm, sweet breath fanned his skin gently, and he felt a warm hand wrap around his own gently, mindful of his scraped and bruised knuckles.

Everything ached, inside and out, but the ache lessened slightly when Dean was beside him.

"Where's dad?" he breathed, keeping his eyes closed. He could feel Dean's eyes on him.

"He's helping Pastor Jim clean the house up."

"Right," Sam couldn't understand why his throat was so tight. Everyone was always cleaning up his messes. He wondered when the time would come that he would be able to do it for himself.

Sam knew he had been granted another chance at life. It was a gift, and blessing that not many would be granted. But it didn't feel like one. And it didn't feel like he deserved any second chances.

Sam wasn't worthy of anything anymore.

-

"Sam, I need to talk to you."

Sam watched his father sit down in the chair by his bed, and swallowed sharply, staring at his hands in his lap. The scabs and bruises stood out starkly against the pure whiteness of the sheets and the pallor of his skin. He felt dirty, even though he had been given a sponge bath not long ago. He was treated like a baby, handled like a figurine made of glass. Even though he was still as weak as a kitten, it made him angry.

Anger and Fear. Revulsion and Shame. They were the only things that made any sense to him anymore, and the only things he could feel. Those, and the dreaded empty void that seemed to follow him around, a grim replacement for the Wraith that had been destroyed and he wasn't sure which one was worse anymore.

Or if the foreboding figure of his father was really there, or a figment of his own wishful thinking. Some small part of him wanted to be the little boy that could lose himself within the strength and warmth of his father's arms. He wished he could be naive and ignorant once more, and that he didn't have to be afraid of himself anymore.

But it was no use wishing for things that could never be was it? No, he was trapped here, trapped within himself, trapped in the bleak hospital room with the father that didn't want him anymore, and the brother who thought the world of him but didn't realize that he was unworthy of such love.

If Sam had learnt one thing from the whole experience, it was that he would never be good enough. He would always need rescuing because he wasn't strong enough to save himself.

"So talk," he mumbled, realizing that his father was waiting for some sort of response.

"I know that this has been hard on you," his father began, looking extremely uncomfortable. "It's been hard on all of us."

Which translated roughly to, 'You somehow managed to get us thrown in the deep end (again) and now none of us know what to do with you,' Sam thought to himself, but he said nothing.

"I know that you're hurting right now, and I realize that now probably isn't the best time to be addressing this...issue, but we need to know."

Meaning, we need answers and we need them now. What you need doesn't compare to the needs of others. Not when there are lives in danger.

It was something he had been told since he was little by those who had known of the lives they led.

'What your daddy does is very important. He's saving peoples lives, putting other's to rest and giving people second chances. I know you want your daddy, but you need to put other's needs before your own,' they'd say.

That was all very well, but where did you draw the line? Neglecting your own children? Letting them starve? Not that John had ever let that happen, he had always made sure they had food and shelter while he was off saving the world and it's occupants, but how did that compare to a parent's love?

Sure he had had Dean. His older brother had been the one who had patched up his little boy injuries, who had comforted him when he was scared or upset. He was the one who had fed him and bathed him and put him to bed when his father had been off playing the blazing hero.

But he shouldn't have had to. He should have been able to have friends and not be burdened with a little boy who needed so much.

He was angry at his father. It was a fury that had been slowly swelling over the days spent lying in a hospital bed when he hadn't been there. But it was always easy to be angry at someone who wasn't there. And it was hard to love someone who was always gone.

Now that he was there, Sam didn't know whether to hate him or just be glad that he was around for a change.

"What is it you need to know?" Sam asked, trying to keep his voice steady and neutral. Just like he had been taught. Like a good little puppy in training.

The stranger sitting by his bed was watching him, he knew, but he was too afraid to look at him for fear of what might happen.

How was it possible to hate someone and want their approval and love so badly at the same time?

"I need to know what went down in that factory, Sammy. I've heard Dean's side of it, but I need to know yours."

"Why?" he asked dully.

He had grown used to the tightness in his throat by now. It was with him whenever he was awake.

His problem, he had discovered, was that he couldn't stop thinking. If only he could just shut down his brain for a little while. Then he would be okay.

"We're just making sure that it's truly dead, that's all," the pastor put in gently.

Jim was standing near the foot of his bed, his eyes kind and gentle in the late afternoon light that was pouring in the window. The door had been closed after the nurses had carted Dean away for a physical.

"It's dead, okay? I know because I killed it myself. Isn't that enough?" he asked hoarsely, before clearing his ever tightening throat.

"We're just double checking, Sammy. Cross referencing and all," his father answered.

"You don't believe me when I say that it's dead?"

"It's not that we don't believe you, Sam. We're just trying to understand how."

"Right." Sam exhaled. "Ask away then."

He felt more like burrowing under his blankets and never emerging. But he knew that when his father was on a quest for information, there was nothing and no one he wasn't willing to relentlessly grill until he got what he wanted, even if it was his own sons.

Well, there wasn't much left of him to grill so it worked out quite well for both of them. He tried to ignore that flash of pain that registered in his father's dark eyes, but it only served to make him more angry.

"How did you get that burn on your palm."

Surprised, Sam looked down at his left palm. There was a healing burn in the shape of the holy cross. The shape would forever be branded into his palm, and the irony of it struck Sam a little too close to the heart.

He flexed his hand and watched the healing pink skin ripple, feeling it stretch and pull.

"Happened when I got the wraith out of me. I held it back long enough to grab it and start praying. " Sam smiled bitterly. "Didn't like that much."

"And that's when you expelled it from your body?" his dad asked, cautiously.

"You mean, when it expelled itself from my body," Sam pointed out. After all, there was no way he was strong enough to do it by himself, he thought to himself. That's what you're thinking, right dad? That he didn't have strength of character enough to do it himself.

"Right. And what happened then?"

Sam caught the sharp glance that Jim threw at his father, but knew that it meant nothing. It was what they were all thinking, though. Jim was just more subtle about it, that was all. The concern was appreciated, but not necessary.

"Tired to shoot it."

"But you missed?"

Sam nodded. Bet you love that, right dad? Your failure of a son can't even shoot straight. Can't shoot like a real man.

"It was too fast. Couldn't focus on it properly."

Sam didn't know why he was even trying to explain himself. After all, there was no use making excuses, right John Winchester? There are only mistakes.

No excuses.

"I don't really remember much after that. I know Dean showed up. Drew it off. "

Saving me, yet again. Like the failure of a soldier that I am. Like the disappointment that I've always been to you...

"I followed, tried to help him out, but I wasn't much use. " As always, useless like a pen with no ink. "Dean tried to get me somewhere safe so he could fight without having to worry about me. But it showed up before he could. Threw him through that window. He was..."

"We know that he was out of it after that. What did you do?"

"I let it get me. Let it throw me about for a bit so I could get it away from Dean."

The memories were coming hard and fast now, hot flashes and flurries of activities that made his head pound.

"Easy, Sammy." A strong hand patted his knee, and he wanted nothing more than to hit it away. Probably would have too, if his head wasn't hurting so badly.

"Just tell us what you do remember," Jim encouraged soothingly.

"It was coming at me. I distracted it, waited until it was surrounding me, and shot it with the bullets. Every one hit, just before it tried to possess me again." Sam looked down at his hands again, staring at the healing burn. "And I prayed. Tried to remember ever prayer I've ever heard. And that was it."

Bet you love that. Your son, praying like some hopeless boy who's in too deep. Praying to a god who couldn't even save the woman you loved and lost, the mother he had never gotten the chance to know.

And the worst of it was, it looked like he didn't believe it. His father sat there, tapping one blunt fingertip against his chin as he thought and paid no attention to him.

Sam looked away, his disappointment and anger like a swift uppercut to his jaw. The Pastor moved closer, anxious to soothe the hurt that John Winchester obviously inspired within his youngest with very little effort.

Sam didn't want to comfort. He didn't need to be coddled like a little child. He needed to be left alone.

"There's no way of knowing that it's actually dead," his father continued, oblivious.

The burn of anger was like acid now, and Sam lay down once more, pulling his sheets up in a futile effort to block any more emotional attacks.

It was dead. He knew that for sure. He had felt the very moment it died, because it felt like some part of him had been shredded at the same moment.

"John, maybe you should..." Jim began, but his father stood up abruptly.

"I'm gonna head to the library and get some research under my belt."

A hand descended briefly onto his shoulder. "You did good Sam."

Sam listened to the door close behind his father and tried to ignore the other presence in the room.

"He doesn't mean to be so insensitive, Sam..."

"I know," Sam cut him off. "It's just the way he is."

The pastor took the seat his father had vacated and Sam stared once more up at that ceiling above him, wondering when he would get to look at something else for a change.

"Sam, you know that he loves you. He loves you boys more than life himself. He's just trying to make sure that this things really gone, and that you're both safe.

I'm never going to be safe again, and we both know it, he thought to himself, but he made no move to correct the pastor.

"I can see you're tired, Sammy," the pastor sighed. "I'll let you get some rest. Dean should be back any minute. You won't be alone for long."

Sam endured to hand brushing over his hair and sighed with relief once he was alone. Although he knew he should feel bad for driving the pastor away with his silences, he just couldn't seem to stop. Emotions were too draining on him. Anger left him tired, fear left him lonely and weary, and sustaining any emotion for any amount of time left him with that empty void.

Sam wished Dean would stay away and if he knew what was best for him (which he probably didn't) he would.

-

"Hey Sam, look who I bought to visit," Dean called out cheerfully as he was wheeled back into the room by Emma.

Emma had become their regular care-giver, and had become fast friends with Dean. Sam didn't mind her, even though sometimes her smile was too bright, and her laughter too painful to listen to.

Sam didn't even try to smile at his brother or Emma, and just focus on staring blankly at one of the magazines the nurses had left with them.

"Sam?" Dean sounded puzzled, and Emma left them, squeezing Dean's shoulder briefly.

Dean wheeled closer in the chair, balancing backwards on it, and spinning around with expert skill.

"What's wrong, dude? You look like someone kicked your puppy."

Sam shook his head, and wondered if Dean was actually buying the pretending to read thing. Apparently not.

"Nothings wrong."

"I take it dad's left then."

"Yeah, a little while ago."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What did you guys talk about?" Dean asked as he swirled vigorously about the room in his new toy.

"Why are you even in a wheel chair?" Sam asked, raising his eyes from his magazine to watch his brother's antics. "It's not like you can't walk."

"Hospital policy, bro." Dean grinned at him. "And a damn good one at that, seeing as how I get hot nurses wheeling me around all day."

"You're just lazy," Sam replied, not rising to the bait as Dean expected him to.

He returned his eyes to the magazine. He was bored, and tired and angry and he didn't have the mental strength needed to go into a battle of the wits with Dean. His older sibling was cocky and down right infuriating at the best of times, and Sam just wanted to be left alone. He felt burnt out and dull in comparison to Dean, and the last thing he needed was an inferiority complex to go with his magnitude of personal issues.

"Lazy? Hey, with all the scum that we fight, I think we've both earned the right to be lazy every once in a while, don't you?"

Sam refused to answer, and instead stared at the garishly bright layout of the page in front of him. Dean was right though. They had been involved in their father's vendetta since they were kids, babies really, and Sam had never really wanted to be a part of it to begin with.

Now he wanted out permanently. He wanted a home, and friends, and he wanted to not have to be afraid of losing the only family he had all the time. He wanted to not be angry at his father, and he didn't want to resent Dean for his never-ending loyalty to the one who had condemned them to the life they led.

But he did, and he was tired of feeling so unwanted, and so angry.

He was prevented from sinking even further into his dark thoughts by Dean calling Emma back into the room. He frowned at him as she appeared, and was instantly put on guard by the bright grin he received in return.

"Hey Emma, can you help me get Sam into my trusty wheelchair? I think it's about time he got out of this room. Change of scenery, ya know sweetheart?"

Sam sat up straighter in alarm, and Emma looked uncertainly from Dean to Sam and back again.

"I'm not sure…."

Dean was watching Sam intently, his humor disappearing. He flashed a smile up at Emma though as he got to his feet.

"It's okay. Me and dad talked to the doctor today. He said it would speed your recovery the sooner you got up and about. So we're going for a little trip, Sammy. Just you an' me."

"Dean, I don't…." Sam began.

Dean held up a hand. "No buts. We're going."

"I'm tired, Dean. I don't think…."

"Tired? How can you be tired when you've been sleeping most of time?"

Sam sighed again. "Please Dean. I just….I can't, okay?"

"Sam." Dean approached him, his eyes softening. "There's something I want you to see, okay? Can you try? For me?"

As angry as he wanted to be, and as much as he wanted Dean to keep away, there was no way in hell he could refuse a request like that from him and they both knew it too.

Sam sighed, and sat up a little.

"Fine. Just…don't take me too far, okay?"

"What ever you want Sam."

It took quite some maneuvering to get him into the wheelchair. The cast on his leg was bulky, and ran the entire length of his leg. Moving more than necessary was extremely uncomfortable for him, on account of the internal bruising, but with Emma helping Dean it wasn't as bad as it could have been.

Still, he was pale and sweating profusely once he was re-seated with his leg secured in the foot rest. Dean patted his shoulder and Emma walked them to the door. Sam kept his grip on his IV, making sure the lines didn't tug out of his skin

"Not too long, okay boys? The doctors would have me butt if you land yourself back in a hospital bed for another few weeks," she smiled at them as Dean pushed him into the busy hallway. "When you get back, you'll have clean sheets and lunch waiting."

"You're an angel," Dean told her, flashing another bright grin at her. Sam was trying to get his breath back, and he wiped sweat on his forearm. Lowering his arm, he stared at the sight of his bony wrist, and was startled at the amount of weight and muscle he had lost.

"Doctors say you've lost a fair amount of weight," Dean told him quietly, obviously looking where he was. "They say that once you're out of here, and moving around again, you should put most of it back on in a few weeks."

Dean had taken them into an elevator, and pushed the button for floor number 10 and Sam frowned when he read the description written next to the glowing button.

"Maternity ward? Pediatrics? Dean, I'm not going to go and ogle at all the hot nurses," Sam told him wearily. Sometimes, Dean's lecherous ways grated painfully on his frazzled nerve endings.

Dean laughed. "While that's actually a good idea Sammy, that's not the reason we're going. We're just taking a walk, is all."

Sam rolled his eyes and decided not the hassle him about his perverted ways for once.

"So what did dad do?" Dean asked, softer this time.

Sam momentarily debated whether or not to let Dean in on the budding family feud, but in the end decided that he didn't need to be further burdened with the problems that came inherent with his younger brother. Sam wished, and not for the first time, that he could be more like Dean. At least Dean always seemed to know where he stood. And he was happy with what he was doing. And if not exactly happy, then something close to it.

Sam wished he could be the same. Wished he knew what he wanted. Wished he didn't always feel like he was a walking contradiction.

"Nothing, Dean. It was nothing," he mumbled eventually as he bowed hi head and stared at his cast. It had been violently decorated by Dean and a handful of colored markers that he had filched from somewhere. It made Sam smile when he studied the crudely drawn stick figures, and the distinctly confusing and random passages written in Dean's messy hand writing. Some of the nurses that had been in charge of looking after them both had also written get well messages on the brilliant white of the cast; Sam and Dean had turned charming nurses into an art, even though this time, Sam's heart hadn't really been in it.

A hand descending on his shoulder was Dean's only response, and Sam was grateful for the heavy warmth of it.

The elevator doors pinged open, and Sam was immediately hit with a horrible mixture of baby powder colors, meant to calm and relax no doubt. All they did was make him nauseous.

Baby animals frolicked in impossibly green fields. Fluffy white clouds bounced across a brilliant blue sky, and a big, smiling yellow sun beamed down across the whole absurd scene. It made Sam's sensitive head ache, and he closed his eyes as a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. To be so innocent…..

"Oh for the love of…." Dean muttered. "They need to get somebody to redecorate this place. Like, seriously need to. It's like a crime against humanity. Or the fashion industry. Surely somebody's noticed the monstrosity that is this floor by now."

Sam was trying very hard not to laugh. It was part hysteria and exhaustion and part amusement that was inspiring the urge, but it felt good none the less. Dean had the ability to make people laugh as easily as breathing.

Sam avoided looking at the very obvious pregnant ladies and their partners as Dean wheeled him slowly through the ward. And he almost squirmed when they wheeled past the doors that led to the birthing suites because of an unexpectedly loud scream that sounded.

Dean slowed them to a halt when they turned a corner. The wall they were faced with had a long window in it, but Sam couldn't see what was beyond the window. The wheelchair he was in was too low for him to see anything, but apparently this was what had caused Dean to up heave him from his nest of blankets. Dean parked the chair and put on the breaks.

There was hardly anyone around. This part of the ward was unexpectedly quiet, and Sam was confused as to why.

Dean, however, in all his secretiveness said nothing as he came to stand beside him. Warm hands slipped beneath his arms and gently yet insistently urged him to stand up. Sam was reluctant and resisted as much as possible from his position in the chair; he was still very weak, and uncertain that his one good leg would be able to hold his weight.

He frowned up at Dean in confusion.

"Just trust me, okay? I've got you."

Sam relented, and let Dean help him to his feet (or foot). He shuffled awkwardly, trying to balance with the bulky and heavy cast and clung onto Dean as a gentle wave of dizziness claimed him.

Dean stood steady as a rock, waiting patiently for him to get his bearings.

"Look up," he murmured to Sam.

Sam did as he was told, and was surprised to find himself facing a room full of newborns. This room at least, was decorated tastefully. Soft blues and gentle pinks were the ruling colors, with pale greens and yellows making the odd appearance. The place was half full with tiny babies. Some were sleeping, others waving fists erratically in the air, while others lay placidly.

"What are we doing here, Dean?" Sam asked his brother in a hushed whisper, feeling the need to be extremely quiet.

Dean nodded his head towards the babies, his eyes warm with an emotion that Sam couldn't put a name to.

"Look at them, Sammy. They're new. Vulnerable, innocent." he murmured.

Sam turned back to the oddly enchanting sight, and nodded, swallowing past the unexpected tightness in his throat.

"Yeah."

"You were innocent like they are once. Still are." Dean said, a little louder and more firmly than before as he turned to look at him.

Sam suddenly understood why Dean had brought him there, and he looked down, trying to quell the surge of bitterness and anger that was crashing through him all of a sudden.

"Whatever Dean. Let's go."

'"No." Dean used gentle but firm hands, to turn Sam towards him. "Listen to me Sam. I know what you're thinking. I know that you think what happened was your fault, that you must have deserved it in some way…."

"I don't want to hear this, Dean. Let's get back to the room." Sam interrupted him abruptly, attempting to turn back to the wheelchair.

Dean's hands tightened on his arms.

"I don't care if you want to listen to it or not, but you're going to hear it anyway. It wasn't your fault, Sam. None of it was. Nothing you've done, and nothing you are was the cause of what happened," Dean told him forcefully, his voice hard.

"Then how do you explain it, Dean? I must've done something to cause it. I must have…." Sam snapped, fighting back angry tears.

Dean shook him slightly. "No Sam. I can't explain it. No one can. But nothing we've ever come across in all our years hunting has ever had a reasonable explanation. How do Wendigo's choose their victims? Or werewolves? They don't. It's just luck. People being in the wrong place at the wrong time." Dean's hands and voice softened when tears spilled from Sam's eyes. "It's just bad luck Sammy."

"No. It can't be," Sam croaked out, swiping angrily at his cheeks. "It's because I'm…"

"Because you're what?"

"It's because I'm tainted. F-first mum and now…" Sam managed, trying to quell the sobs that were threatening to explode from his chest.

For a moment Dean said nothing. Then he was pulled roughly into his arms, and he buried his face in Dean's shoulder without hesitation, resting all of his weight against Dean's solid frame.

"It wasn't your fault, Sammy. Not mum, not this, nothing. No matter what you believe, Sam, believe that. And believe that I love you. I want you here with me and dad more than anything. You got that kiddo?" he whispered into his hair.

Sam nodded and tried to muffle his sobs in Dean's chest. His brother just held him tighter, not even trying to push him away and call him a girl. He wanted nothing more than to hollow out Dean and hide himself away inside of him, cocooned and safe. Dean would protect him. Dean would always have his back.

Sam didn't need to be strong around Dean. Dean was his strength. And for once, Sam was okay with being the weaker of them both.