Still don't own Supernatural. Not suing would be appreciated. I have no money, I promise, so please just let me use the brilliant characters.

Thanks for the reviews. Just a warning, Sam swears in this (and probably the next chapter or two). It's that angry 15 year old boy thing.

Sam is 15, and Dean is 19

-/\-SN-/\-

John entered the small apartment and found the living room and kitchen empty. The doors to the bathroom and to Sam and Dean's room were closed. John dropped the bag by the door and shed his rain-soaked jacket. He pulled the bottle of Jack Daniels down and a couple of glasses. He eased into a kitchen chair and poured himself a glass.

Dean emerged from the bathroom and slipped into his room. John heard their muffled conversation behind the closed door. He didn't have any idea how to fix this, not a single one.

"That's not fucking likely, Sam." Dean stormed from the room and slammed the door.

He stopped when he saw John at the table. Without a word, he poured a drink for his son.

Dean stood with his hands gripped on the back of the chair. "Sam's hurt."

"How bad?" John looked up.

"Bad enough." He paused. "He won't let me do anything, took a swing at me."

John sighed and stood. He hated to do it, hated to do it now, but he was all out of options. It seemed to be a trend that night.

He knocked on the closed bedroom door. "Sam. Open the door." It was an order, hard and no options.

Sam pulled open the door. John saw how the front of his son's gray tee shirt, aside from being soaked with rain, was also soaked with a considerable amount of blood.

"Let me patch you up."

"No." His hands shook from pain.

"Fine." John knew that an argument would do nothing more than waste precious time. "I'll pour you a drink then, that's gotta hurt like a bitch."

Sam was conflicted with the offer. He knew it must be a trap somehow, but he was too tired to figure it out. John turned back to the kitchen. Sam stepped into the hall and watched.

John pulled down another glass. He snagged the first aid kit from the cupboard and slipped a bottle of pills from it without being seen by Sam. He dropped two pills in the bottom of the glass and drowned them in whisky. He topped off Dean's glass, turned, set the drinks on the table and sat back down. Dean saw the pills dissolve in the bottom of the glass that was set in front of Sam.

Dean sat down and took a drink, let the whisky burn on the way down and blur the details of the night.

John took a drink and gestured towards the third glass. "Have a seat, Sam."

Sam slid into the chair and picked up the glass. His shivered from cold and pain, his hand trembled around the glass. He had been invited in on the drinks only a time or two before. It had only been a swallow or two then, and celebratory. Dean's graduation and a party at Bobby's the summer after that. He had never been offered an entire glass before, a drink like one that Dean was always poured.

He picked up the glass and glanced up at his father before he remembered that he didn't give a shit what his father thought. Sam took a slow drink and felt it burn, wondered if he'd ever like it as much as his father and brother seemed to. He didn't cough though, like the first time.

"Let me get a look at that." John ventured.

Sam shook his head. "It's fine."

"Looks deep."

He glanced down at his blood soaked shirt and still felt the blood run warm down his front. "I'm fine." His voice shook.

John glanced over at Dean and he took his cue.

Dean shrugged. "Let me at least throw some gauze on it." He took another drink.

Sam's eyes moved from his father to his brother. For a second it looked like he might agree, but then he shook his head and took another drink.

The three sat around the table and drank, still wet and muddy. No words. John downed the rest of his and stood. He disappeared into his room and returned a few minutes later in clean, dry clothes.

"Dean, get changed."

Dean stood and left. Sam looked at his glass, still half to go.

"Wanna get changed?" John ventured.

"No." Sam's voice was rough. His head swam a little and he wondered if it was from the alcohol or the blood loss.

John tipped some more whiskey into his glass. "I'm proud of you, Sam. Doing everything for your friend like that."

Sam scoffed and took another drink, it was going down easier. Dean returned and sat in his chair. Sam finished the drink and tried to find the will to stand and retreat to his room. He felt dizzy and sick. He leaned forward and rested his elbow on the table, his head cupped in his palm. It was harder to stay awake, the pain less, even the cold was going away.

"Dean." John kept his eyes on Sam. "Grab some towels, throw them over the couch."

Dean stood and left the room. Sam blinked slowly and swallowed.

"You okay, Sam?" John asked.

Sam nodded.

John stood and knelt at Sam's side. He slipped his arm around his son's shoulder, felt the boy tense. "You're okay, Sammy."

"Hate you." His words were heavy and thick.

"I know."

John slowly eased Sam to his feet. The boy wavered and would have fallen if not for John's steady weight at his side. Dean spread the towels over the couch and John guided the boy over. He eased Sam back and pulled off the shirt. The gash on Sam's shoulder would need a stitch or two, just as John suspected.

"What are you doing?" He tried to focus, to bring the double images he saw into one again. "Let me go."

"Just close your eyes." John pulled a kitchen chair over.

Sam fought to stay awake. John eased his boy so he was lying down. Sam's eyes drifted closed and he let himself float in the weightlessness of unconsciousness.

"Dad." He word was quiet.

John brushed Sam's hair back as Dean brought the first aid kit over. "Sam."

"Still mad at you." His eyes blinked open, blurry and unfocused.

"I know."

Sam focused on what John was doing, saw the iodine and smelled the rubbing alcohol. He tried to sit up, but his body felt like it was filled with lead.

"No." He tried to struggle.

Dean, from somewhere above Sam's head, rested his hands on his little brother's shoulders and held him.

"It's okay, Sam." John cupped his son's face. "You're going to be okay."

A tear traced a path down Sam's cheek. "You killed him."

"Because he would have killed you."

Sam knew it meant something, gave him answers to the things he yelled in the woods, but the thoughts were too slow, too blurred by alcohol, pain and drugs. Sam blinked and fought sleep.

"Just rest, Sammy." Dean said from above him.

Sam tilted his head back to look at his brother. "On my side?" He was confused.

"Always, Sammy. Always."

Sam couldn't fight any longer and let his eyes slip closed. His breathing evened out and shallowed. John carefully cleaned and stitched up his son. He taped gauze over the gashes and tugged Sam's wet and muddy jeans from him.

"Should we take him to bed?" Dean kept his voice down even though there was a snowball's chance in hell of waking Sam.

"No." John sat back, let exhaustion wash over him. "Just grab a blanket and something for him to sleep in."

Dean stood and left the room. John stepped into the kitchen and filled a glass with water. He paused as he tried to remember something else he forgot. He gave up and returned to his boy's side. He carefully tipped some water into Sam's mouth and the boy convulsively swallowed.

"That's my boy." John brushed Sam's wet hair away from his face. "I'm sorry we couldn't save him, Sammy." He leaned forward and kissed Sam's forehead.

Dean returned with a blanket and sweatpants. He held the trashcan in his other hand. John then remembered what else he was going to grab from the kitchen. Sam never did do very well with that amount of pain pills, and the whisky on top of it would only make things worse. He hoped that Sam could sleep through the worst of it, but knew his boy well enough to know that it was only a wish.

Dean eased into a nearby chair and watched his brother sleep. Sam's face was pale and a little blood had soaked through the bandages. John pulled the blanket up, even asleep, Sam still shivered.

"Goodnight, Sammy.' John whispered as he ran his hand over Sam's cheek.