A/N Just typos fixed in this chapter, maybe some phrases reworded but not anything to require a reread if you've already read it. :o) Though, I will mention that the scene in the classroom actually happened to me - in Grade Three! I will probably carry that shame to my grave! ~Kelcor

Chapter 4: Guilt vs Blame

MARCH, 1998

15-year-old Sam Winchester stalked through the woods, weapon in hand but mind not on task. He couldn't stop thinking about the assignment waiting to be written back at the motel - one paragraph completed, only 6 pages to go… and due tomorrow! But, did Dad care? No way. All he cared about was bagging this latest supernatural baddy - a Robarnick - which, granted, was killing hikers and forest rangers alike. But why did Sam have to be there? Dean and Dad could handle this hunt with their eyes closed, they didn't need him! Dad was just on a power trip, that's all. If he wanted Sam on a hunt, that was how it was going to be. End of story.

Sam understood the urgency of the situation, really he did, but Mrs. Sangalang was going to have his head and, judging from past experience, Sam wasn't entirely sure that was a figurative statement.

He still remembered what had happened the last time a hunt had taken all night long, not allowing him enough time to finish his homework.

Two weeks ago…

"Okay, class," Mrs. Sangalang said from her seat behind the desk at the front of the room. "Anyone who did not finish their book report last night, please raise your hand."

Sam shrunk down in his seat but failed to raise his hand, he wasn't stupid, wasn't about to call attention to the fact that he hadn't completed the assignment. He almost always did his homework - well, when he wasn't needed on a hunt, anyway - why should he accept punishment on the rare occasion when he didn't? He'd just stay out of her line of sight for the rest of the class. Lots of other students did that, Sam watched them do it, and it always seemed to work for them.

"Everyone did their homework? Really? Okay, then, who wants to come up here and share their report with the class?"

Sam tried to make himself even more invisible by sliding down further in his seat… I mean, come on, what're the chances that she'd pick him out of the other 20 students in the class, some of whom even had their hands raised high in the air, wanting to be the first to share their -

"Sam Winchester? How about you?"

Feeling his face turn beet red, Sam shook his head, his eyes darting from side to side, looking for escape, catching instead the questioning looks from his classmates.

"Mr. Winchester? Is something wrong?"

Sam was never the stammering type, he always knew what to say and the proper words to say it with, but today, at this moment? "Uh, I… uh… I actually didn't… uh… I didn't finish the assignment, Mrs. Sangalang. I'm sorry - "

"I see." A long pause followed, the utter silence in the room causing Sam to fidget in his seat as the rest of the class moved their attention back and forth between the teacher and her current target of ridicule. "Mr. Winchester, could you please step up to the front."

Sam's eyes widened in surprise. He glanced around the room but now saw only bowed heads as every student avoided eye contact with him, clearly embarrassed for him - like they knew something he didn't. And, he'd only been going to this school for a few weeks, so, yeah, they probably did.

On shaky legs, he got up from his seat - not missing the irony of the fact that with all the evil things he had faced in his life time, it was this single teacher who had him literally shaking in his boots - and made his way to the head of the class. He stood next to Mrs. Sangalang, a few inches taller than she, blushing profusely at being singled out, the centre of attention, unable to think of anything more embarrassing than this, until…

"Class, I want you all to take a good look because this is what a liar looks like."

Sam's head snapped up in shock. "I didn't lie, I -"

"Omission of the truth is the same as a lie, Mr. Winchester," she said, turning her attention back to the class. "Sam is an example of what not to be. Remember that the next time you consider lying to anyone. You may take your seat, Mr. Winchester."

Eyes shining with tears of shame that he refused to let fall, the young Winchester sat back down and zoned out for the remainder of the class, refusing to meet anyone's gaze, wishing he were anywhere but in that room.

Present day…

Sam cringed at the memory. He so did not want a repeat occurrence, preferring to keep that little nugget of a memory buried in his subconscious, never to be seen, or remembered, again.

"Sammy," Dean whispered harshly from behind him, "what is up with you, man? You look like you're a million miles away."

"I wish I was," Sam muttered bitterly.

"Yeah, well, you're not. And this Robarnick is dangerous, you need to pay attention."

"What I need is to be back at the motel, finishing my book report," his whispered words doing nothing to hide the anger in his voice.

"Sammy-"

Sam stopped and turned on his brother, not yet tall enough to be eye to eye with him. Right now it was more like eye to chin - the growth spurt he was anxiously waiting for was long overdue. He looked up at Dean, the frustration and embarrassment from his recent memory flashing in his eyes. "No, Dean, don't tell me that the hunt is more important than my school work because it's not. School is my only hope of getting away from this life!"

He saw something flash in Dean's eyes. It was gone before Sam had a chance to truly analyze it but he was pretty sure his words had just hurt his brother more than any other weapon ever could… and his heart plummeted at the realization.

"Fine, but right now? We both need to be watching Dad's back!"

"Dad is the one I want to get away from the most, Dean! All he cares about is himself. He shouldn't be putting us in harm's way like this, he should be protecting us from this stuff, not throwing us into the thick of it!"

The words were already out of his mouth before he realized Dean's eyes were no longer on him but focused on something - or someone - behind him. He spun around, his simmering anger deflating as soon as he saw the pained look in his father's eyes - again, gone before he could even blink.

After that, everything happened in a blur…

A ROAR broke through the heavy silence mere seconds before John's eyes widened in surprise and he fell forward into Dean's arms, both of their weapons falling to the ground.

"Dad!" Sam and Dean cried in unison.

Dean scrambled to take his father's weight, almost going to his knees himself, the tree behind him the only thing keeping him on his feet.

Tearing his eyes away from his family, Sam brought his shotgun up to bear and fired one round into the creature's chest, a second into its skull, watching with grim satisfaction as the thing crumpled to the ground. He nudged it with his toe. When it didn't even twitch, he turned his attention back to Dean and their dad.

Dean was tying his jacket around John's waist in an attempt to stop the blood flow from the two large wounds in his lower back, one of which had punctured straight through to his stomach. A glance back at the creature revealed to Sam several large talons on each of its hands, two of which were covered in blood… his dad's blood. Fighting the urge to lose his supper right then and there, Sam reached out to assist his brother with John's weight but Dean shook his head resolutely.

"I got him," he said, grabbing his father's arm and wrapping it around his shoulders, wrapping his own arm around John's waist and wincing at the moan of pain his actions pulled out of the older man. "You grab the guns," he added, jutting his chin toward the weapons laying next to the now-dead creature, before half carrying, half dragging their father back toward the safety of the Impala.

TWO DAYS LATER

Sam was pacing back and forth in his father's hospital room, alternating between running his hands through his hair in frustration, and trying to rub the growing tension out of the back of his neck. He stopped for a moment and stared at John's still form, then resumed his pacing.

Why won't he wake up? It's been two freakin' days! He should be awake by now. Yelling at me for not paying attention, for not watching his -

Sam's internal ramblings were cut short when Dean came into the room, his face grim, dark circles under his eyes. He had a steaming cup of liquid in each hand. Eyes on John, Dean handed one cup over to Sam, who accepted it gratefully.

"Thanks," he said softly. Dean's response was nothing more than a soft shrug and an even softer grunt of acknowledgement.

Sam watched as his normally unflappable older brother folded himself wearily into the chair next to the bed, sipping at his coffee as he continued to watch John's unconscious form, as if he could get the man to wake up from sheer force of will alone.

The younger Winchester hadn't realized how much his brother's eye contact meant to him until it was taken away. Dean hadn't met his eyes since the Robarnick attacked Dad. And, Sam wasn't stupid, he knew why - Dean blamed Sam as much as Sam blamed himself. Why wouldn't he? It was Sam's fault. He had pulled all attention off the hunt and onto himself. Maybe Dean was right. Maybe he was a drama queen. Dean had called him that all his life and Sam had scoffed at the idea. But, now -

Alarms sounded from every direction. Sam and Dean both whipped their heads around in shock, praying the loud, prolonged BEEP was coming from another room. But, seconds later, Dean was being pulled out of his chair and both boys were being shoved out of the room.

They watched in horror, noses almost pressed against the glass window of the door, as doctors and nurses tried to get their father's heart beating again. Dean was standing behind Sam. When he placed his hands on Sam's shoulders, squeezing gently in comfort… Sam, suddenly, didn't want the contact, knew he didn't deserve the comfort! He pushed frantically away from Dean and ran down the hallway as fast as his legs would carry him, not seeing the perplexed look on his brother's face, nor the torn expression as his eyes moved from his little brother's retreating form, to his near-death father just a few feet away.

As soon as John was stabilized, Dean went in search of his stubborn little brother. Okay, yeah, he had been angry at first, even blamed the kid a little bit. But as soon as their dad's heart stopped, as soon as Dean witnessed the agony when he saw Sam's eyes reflected in the glass window, Dean's anger and blame dissipated. Sam was still just a kid and sometimes kids over reacted to things, sometimes they said things they didn't mean. Sammy sometimes needed an outlet and, although his words were occasionally hurtful to the people who loved him the most, they were still just words and Dean was willing to take the brunt of them if it meant keeping the peace between Sam and their dad.

The kid didn't leave a trail for him to follow, he is a hunter, after all - and, more importantly, a Winchester - but Dean knew what his little brother did when he was upset… he lost himself in books. He wasn't sure that method would work this time, was almost positive that it wouldn't, but he knew Sammy and he knew the effort would be made. Dean glanced at his watch. The libraries would be closed - scratch that - the library would be closed. It had been pointed out on more than one occasion - by guess who - that this particular town had just one, not including the ones that were incorporated into each of the three schools because they closed shortly after classes ended and never opened on weekends.

Decision made, Dean hopped into the Impala and headed straight for the motel. When he got there, he was surprised to see the motel manager standing at the door to their room. Getting out of the vehicle, he realized the manger was yelling through the wood, trying to get the attention of the person on the other side of the meager barricade.

"Is everything okay in there," the man called, digging into his pocket for what Dean was pretty sure would be the Master Key. Dean put on his best I'm-innocent-and-only-here-to-help face, which wasn't completely out of left field, and approached the clearly stressed manager. As he got closer, Dean began to share the other man's concern when he heard the noise coming from the room - his heart stuttering at the sound of the anguished cry that accompanied it.

"What seems to be the problem here?"

The man looked up at him in surprise, then recognition registered on his face. "This is your room, right? With your dad and your brother?"

Dean winced. They usually liked to keep a lower profile than that - dude had a good memory, he was going to have to tread extra carefully with this one. Deciding the best route would be to tug at the heart strings, Dean launched into the story of their dad getting seriously injured - minus the whole monster hunt detail, of course - and almost dying in the hospital, convincing himself that the tears in his eyes were completely for show.

"So, you see, my little brother is really traumatized by the whole thing… blames himself, even."

The expression in the manager's eyes slid straight from stress and frustration to out-and-out sympathy, or maybe even empathy.

"I lost my dad not too long ago, should've paid more attention to his complaints about pain in his chest." Okay, so, empathy it was, then. "I'll give you ten minutes to calm your brother down but, after that, I'll have no choice but to call the police. Understood?"

"Perfectly," Dean said, already planning in his head a contingency plan that would now include an impromptu appearance by local authorities.

As the manager walked away, Dean pulled out his own key. He unlocked the door, slipped into the room and… halted mid-step. The television was laying on the floor, the screen smashed to bits below it. More interesting to Dean, considering the perpetrator of said destruction, were the torn pages and book covers strewn around the room, not to mention pens and pencils - one of which would have impaled Dean had he not ducked at the last second.

He followed the probable trajectory of the pencil and his eyes finally fell on his baby brother - clearly so blinded by grief and guilt that he hadn't even registered Dean's presence. The pallor of Sam's skin made Dean wonder when he last saw the kid sleep or even eat… and found he couldn't remember - big brother's turn to feel guilty.

"Sam," Dean said. No response - unless you counted the alarm clock being torn from the socket and thrown against a wall with another anguished cry. Man, Dean would never be able to get used to that sound coming from his little brother. "Sam!" Still no response. "Sammy!" This time he said it with enough force that Sam actually flinched away from him, his eyes flicking up, only to dart away as soon as eye contact was made.

"C'mon, dude," Dean hedged, "the manager's gonna call five-oh if you don't stop creating your very own apocalypse in his motel." He took a step toward the kid, only to have Sam take a step away. "Talk to me, Sammy. I mean, I know you feel guilty 'n all but - "

"Guilty?" Sam yelled. "Guilty, Dean? Are you kidding me?" He shook his head, eyes shining but face dry. "I killed the man!" Then, in little more than a whisper so soft that Dean almost missed it: "I killed him."

"Sammy -" Dean began, taking another step forward.

But Sam put his hand up, halting Dean's progress. "No," he said, his voice catching on the word. "Stay back. Stay away from me."

Dean stopped, but it was more out of surprise than anything else. The kid normally loved to hug things out, to shed a few tears, get everything out in the open - except, maybe the pain was too big for him to handle this time, maybe he was as afraid as everyone else that he just wouldn't be able to STOP crying, that he would fall apart and wouldn't be able to pull himself together again. Well, that's why God made big brothers - you know, if you believed in all that stuff, which Dean wasn't entirely sure he did, but, okay, off topic…

Ignoring Sam's pleas, Dean quickly closed the gap between them and grabbed his little brother by the shoulders. He ducked down to make eye contact but Sam refused, he just tried to pull out of Dean's grasp, almost succeeded too, until Dean pulled him into a rough hug, holding him against his own chest, arms wrapped tightly around the kid's back. Sam bucked and pushed and pulled, trying desperately to free himself, but Dean held on as if his little brother's life depended on it - which, let's face it, maybe it did.

"Lemme go, Dean! Get off me!"

"Sammy," he whispered forcefully into the kid's ear, "Dad's not dead!"

The wriggling, clawing, desperate-to-be-free form went still in his arms, breath coming out of him in harsh gasps. "You're lying," Sam whispered against the fabric of Dean's shirt.

"No, I'm not. I promise you, Sammy. Dad's alive."

The shoulders started to shake and Dean held on tighter. "But, I heard… I saw…"

"You left before the doctors were able to bring him back, but they did. I promise you, they did. Dad's fine, Sammy. He's fine. Okay?"

Sam's hair brushed against Dean's nose when he nodded his understanding. Deciding that was just a little too easy considering the current condition of their formerly clean room, Dean tacked on, "None of this was your fault, Sammy." He felt the shoulders hitch and freeze beneath his arms. "You know that, right?" No response. "Sammy?"

"Sure," Sam whispered, again pulling away from Dean's hold. "Of course." His tone told Dean more than his words ever could, however - it told him the truth.

Dean kept one arm wrapped around the slim shoulders, running his free hand through Sam's hair, cupping the side of his head in his palm, forcing eye contact. "It wasn't your fault, Sammy," he said, repeating it over and over again.

"I get it, Dean," Sam said, trying desperately to free his arm from his big brother's iron grip. "You can let me go now."

The tone was still too subdued for Dean's liking, though, so he continued. "It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault." Then, rethinking his words, he whispered, "I don't blame you, Sammy."

Sam froze and stared up at him, eyes wide, tears threatening to overflow. Dean held eye contact with him, knowing that his little brother was searching for the truth of his words in his eyes. Finally, Sam's lower lip began to tremble, his shoulders began to shake, then a sob wrenched free. When Sam's legs buckled beneath him, Dean took his brother's weight in his arms, glancing around for a place to sit. The floor was covered in debris from Sam's little war with himself, so Dean led him over to the closest bed, and sat down with him. Sam sat hunched forward, his arms around his middle, as if in physical pain. Dean pulled him sideways to lean against his chest, rocking his little brother as the long withheld tears poured out of him, absorbing the shakes as best he could.

When the sobs died down and Sam's breathing evened out, Dean knew his exhausted little brother was finally asleep. Feeling his job was done, Dean attempted to extricate himself from the fingers that now had the front of his shirt in a death-grip… eliciting a whimper from Sam. Sighing with defeat, Dean lay back on the bed, arms full of little brother, and closed his eyes. A low rumble emanated from Sam's stomach.

"Sammy, as soon as you wake up, we are so going out for your biggest meal ever!"

Neither Winchester heard the rumble from Dean's own stomach a few moments later, as both lay on the bed, fast asleep in each other's arms.

TBC

Anyone out there want more? Or should I stop here? Please, let me know? I'm kinda wavering back and forth, here. ~Kelcor