Author's note: I realised something as I wrote this. Although I've given Sam concussion and now pneumonia, and Dean a broken leg that became infected, none of these injuries and illnesses has had supernatural causes. Well, Dean broke his leg because he was being shepherded over a cliff by the spirit of a High School Principal, but that could have happened to anyone. I do enjoy the mythology, the horror/fantasy elements, of Supernatural, just as I enjoyed them on Buffy and Angel. But, as with those two shows, I guess I'm really in it for the relationships and the emotion. So, some more angst. Two chapters to go, getting angstier and angstier, and possibly longer and longer.

Fourth - February, 2001

"Is something on your brother's mind? Could he be worrying about something?"

"Like what?"

"Well, I know he's very ambitious academically. Was he disappointed with his SATs? Is he stressing about college acceptances?"

"He aced the SATs." And he doesn't need to worry about being accepted by a college because he's not going to go to college.

"Then … Dean, you know I don't want to pry into your family, but could Sam be missing your father?"

The man sitting across the table could have been sent straight from central casting as 'trustworthy, small town doctor'. In his fifties, dark brown hair greying at the temples, clean shaven, bright blue eyes, a low, steady voice, the doctor was the sort of man that most people trust on sight. Dean didn't trust anyone on sight, but over the past few months this man had earned his trust. So rather than responding to the question with outrage he answered it honestly.

"Sam knows how important Dad's job is, Doc. He understands why Dad needs to be away."

"And he has you. I know how close you two are." Doc smiled at him and then looked down into his mug as though he could read the riddles of the universe in his coffee. It was a habit of his that Dean had had to get used to, Doc's occasional withdrawal into deep thought and coffee-reading, although it had driven him almost mad when what Doc had been pondering in his coffee mug were ways to save Sam's life. Now he waited for a few minutes, let Doc do his thing, and then spoke.

"Look, why all the questions? Is there anything wrong with Sam?" There can't be anything wrong with Sam or you'd have him back in hospital, wouldn't you? I can trust you, right?

"No, not really. It's just, well, he's not bouncing back as quickly as I'd like. He hasn't regained the weight he lost and he's still too listless, but with what you've told me about his eating and sleeping, or his not-eating and not-sleeping, that's not really a surprise." More coffee gazing, and this time Dean didn't indulge him.

"But the pneumonia, Sam's over it, right? He's not still sick?" Please don't let it be back. He was so sick; I can't bear it if he gets that sick again.

"No, no, that's gone. His lungs are clear; if they weren't I'd have him readmitted in a second, you know that." Doc looked up from his coffee and smiled reassuringly. "Dean, don't look so worried. I would have hoped that Sam had more energy by now, but we both need to remember how sick he was. It's no surprise he's taking his time and I need to stop being so impatient. Occupational hazard, I guess; once I cure a patient I want him to reward me by being one hundred percent well immediately. My problem, not Sam's."

Dean tried to smile back, but it was hard. The whole thing was still so recent: Sam's cold that never seemed to get better; the call to tell him that Sam had collapsed at school; the diagnosis of pneumonia; the pleural effusions that needed to be drained. If Dean never saw another tube coming out of his little brother's chest it would be too soon. The pneumonia had attacked Sam's body with an aggression that would have done the most pissed-off spirit proud: acute respiratory distress syndrome and sepsis had put Sam in ICU on a ventilator. John had been around for that, leaving a hunt unfinished in response to Dean's frantic call after Doc had warned him about the possible damage that the sepsis could do to Sam's heart. Dean had been glad to have him there, but he hadn't been able to look his Dad in the eyes, afraid that he would see disappointment in them. John had left a healthy Sam in Dean's care and Dean had failed him, failed them both.

Maybe it came from his years of experience, maybe from two months of close encounters with Dean, but Doc seemed able to read his mind. "Look, Dean, none of this is your fault. You couldn't have stopped Sam from getting sick and you did more than anyone to get him well again."

"Doc, you were the one with the drugs and the machines …" I can protect him from anything else, can put my body between him and spirits and werewolves and wendigos, but I couldn't protect him from this, couldn't trick an illness into attacking me instead.

"Yes, but you were the one sitting by his bed, talking to him, holding his hand, willing him back. I saw you, Dean. Anyone else as sick as Sam was, well, I would have expected to have been at his funeral by now. But Sam fought back, and a lot of the strength he needed to do that came from you. Actually, now I come to think of it, maybe that's why Sam's taking his time. He came damn close to death; it's no wonder if he's freaked out by it. Maybe this listlessness is just the natural result of discovering that he's not invulnerable. He wouldn't be the first eighteen year old male to whom that came as a shock."

Dean smiled absently. Sammy knew he wasn't invulnerable, a lesson painfully learned over the years in broken bones and bites and swipes from claws. That wasn't the problem. But he knew that Doc was doing his best to comfort him.

"Anyway, I'd better go before Alice sends out a search party. Thanks for the coffee." Doc stood up, looking around for his bag.

"Thanks for stopping by. I know it's out of your way …"

"Don't mention it. You make good coffee – no hardship to drop in for a cup on my way home." The doctor headed for the door, before stopping and looking back. "Seriously, Dean, try not to worry. The pneumonia really is gone; Sam really is getting better."

"I know." But I almost lost him. How can I not worry?

As soon as the doctor had left, Dean went to check on Sam, taking the stairs three at a time. Sam was in the room they shared, lying on the bed by the window. The tiny house had two bedrooms, but even when John was away hunting the boys shared one. Dean didn't sleep right without Sam in the other bed, one reason among many that he hadn't bothered to come home when Sam was in the hospital. Sam was propped up with pillows and he had a book, but he wasn't reading. Doc was right, he was still too thin. And the way he was staring out the window; this wasn't Dean's active, energetic baby brother, who turned even the apparent passivity of reading into breathless activity with his focus and intensity. I almost lost him. Maybe, somehow, in some way, I did.

The kids came round the next day. There were two of them: a red-headed girl, attractive in a low-key, brainy way that Dean knew would have appealed to Sam; and a boy who looked Italian and sounded English. Maybe Australian. Some accent that made phrases like 'Right, Guv' and 'You're nicked' float through Dean's head. He'd seen them both around at the hospital; they'd been among the many who had left cards and flowers. Dean had managed to convince John to let the family stay in the one place for Sam's senior year, John and Dean coming and going as needed, and in the six months before he got sick Sam had managed to make a fair number of friends. These two had obviously been among them.

Sam had made it down the stairs and was spending the day lying on the couch, staring out of the lounge room window, rather than lying on his bed, staring out of the bedroom window. Dean decided to see that as progress, although it worried him that Sam showed no interest in the knock on the door. But he seemed to perk up when Dean ushered the pair into the room.

"Hey, guys! Good to see you."

"Sam!" The red-head sped to the couch, bent down and kissed him on the cheek. "Man, have we missed you! It's so good to see you without tubes in you!"

"Yeah, dude. Those machines were creepy!" The boy, who had followed more slowly, punched Sam lightly in the shoulder.

"Do you two want some coffee?" Sam offered. "Dean makes great coffee."

"… for an American?" the boy grinned. Dean, who had been standing watching, stiffened, but before he could say anything Sam and the girl both turned mock-angry faces on the boy. In return, the boy shrank back from them in apparent fear. "What did I say? Everyone knows Americans can't make coffee. Come on, the peak of the American coffee experience is Starbucks!"

"Yeah, Robert, because Australians are so well known for their coffee!"

"Hey, Australians didn't let Italians into the country without espresso machines. It's how my family got in. Australians know good coffee."

"Whatever, man. Okay, ignoring the bigoted wombat, I'd like some coffee, if it's not too much trouble.' The girl really did have a nice smile.

"Me too," Sam smiled at Dean as well. "And make some for the bigoted wombat, too, please, Dean. We need to cure him of his habit of sneering at our coffee."

Dean smiled back. This was the liveliest he'd seen Sam for a while and for that he would forgive Robert anything. The open plan of the house meant that he could hear the conversation as he made the coffee. They pair were catching Sam up on the minutiae of high school gossip, deadly dull to Dean but apparently fascinating to the three of them. Then the conversation moved to plans for next year, to colleges. Robert wanted to do pre-med; the girl, Alison, was talking liberal arts colleges. Then the focus moved to Sam.

"Sam, what do you want to do? Where did you apply?" Damn, I should have helped Sam think of a cover story; something to explain why the school's probable valedictorian isn't going to go to college.

"Pre-law. Stanford. Columbia. Cornell. A few others." What! Sam applied to colleges. Sam can't go to college.

"Man, if I didn't like you so much I'd hate you. Between your SAT scores and your GPA any of them'll grab you. Hell, they'll probably bribe you to accept them. I'm expecting rejection letters with a single line in the middle of the page: don't make us laugh."

Sam laughed. "It won't be that bad, Alison. I hear colleges write very sensitive rejection letters these days."

The red-head grabbed a cushion and feinted a toss at Sam's head. "Good thing you're still sick, man."

In the kitchen area, Dean froze. Sam could not have applied to colleges. He couldn't go to college. Maybe he was just applying because that's what everyone else did. He couldn't really be expecting to go.

"Dean? Dean! Coffee ready?"

"What? Oh, sorry, yeah, coffee coming up." We'll talk about it later. Sam knows what we do, he knows that he can't leave. It's a cover story, just another cover story, like all the others. It doesn't matter what he says. Dean brought in the three mugs, putting them on the table in front of Sam, and going back for sugar and milk. Sam served his guests, apparently knowing their coffee preferences without needing to ask: black for Robert; white with one for Alison. These were his friends; he knew them. If he goes to college he'll make friends there too. Stop it – he's not going to college.

"Man, this is good coffee." Robert was staring at Dean in astonishment. He put his mug down, leapt to his feet, and bowed to Dean. "I acknowledge the first American I've ever met who can make a decent cup." There was a gleam in his eye that it took Dean a second to recognize. The kid was flirting with him. Sorry, dude. You're cute, but you're just not my type.

"Our Dad practically lives on the stuff." Sam was smiling meaningfully at Dean; he'd picked up on Robert's flirting. "He'll take his caffeine any way he can but he does prefer it like this."

"Enough with the coffee talk. It's good, but this is better," said Alison, rummaging in her bag and pulling out a parcel. "Sam, this is for you, from me and Robert and Kath and, well, everyone who wants you back at school so the horrible Oliver isn't valedictorian."

"Hey, the horrible Oliver has been around since freshman year. I've only been here since July."

"Yeah, but the horrible Oliver is a creep." Robert said cheerfully. "You don't make us feel that the rest of us are lesser beings who should bow down and worship your dizzy intellect. Anyway, open your present."

Dean was back in the kitchenette, so he didn't see what Sam unwrapped. He did hear the confusion in Sam's voice."

"Thanks guys, but …"

"We know. Read the inscription."

He could hear the smile in Sam's voice. "Oh. Thanks. I'm trying."

"Well, we need to go," Alison put her mug down purposefully and stood up. "Some of us have homework."

"Yeah, which some of us are going to blow off." Robert stood up, too. "Get better, Sam. Dean – great to finally meet you properly. Thanks for the coffee." Another kiss for Sam from Alison, an awkward one-armed hug from Robert, and the two were off, leaving Sam looking more awake than he had for days. Dean came to the collect the mugs. "What did they give you?"

Sam handed it over: a book, obviously. The Lord of the Rings. "What? But you've …"

"I know. You need to read the inscription."

Dear Sam. To replace your existing copy which, let's face it, is falling apart! Please get better and come back to school. We miss you. Lots and lots of love, Alison, Robert, Kath, Kinsie, Pete, Joey.

"Okay." Dean put the book aside. "Sam, we need to talk." If I don't talk to him about this college stuff he might bring it up with Dad and they'll have one of their patented Winchester versus Winchester shouting matches. I couldn't cope with that at the moment.

"Isn't that usually my line?" Dean couldn't tell if Sam was trying to avoid the subject, or if his apparent lack of interest was genuine.

'What was that stuff about applying to colleges?"

"What do you mean? You knew I'd applied to college." Sam seemed completely nonplussed by the question. "I mean, surely you knew. You must've."

"No, I didn't know! I didn't think you'd be that stupid. What's the point in applying to colleges if you won't be going?"

"Why wouldn't I go?" Sam was starting to look angry. Great, now he has some energy.

"Because you have a job to do here!" If you leave I won't be able to protect you.

"A job I never chose."

"That doesn't matter. It's the family business; you, me, Dad, saving people, hunting things. This is what we do." We're a family, Sammy. You can't leave the family.

"Well, maybe I don't want to do it, not forever. I want a life of my own; there's nothing wrong with that."

"A life as what? A lawyer? Damnit, Sammy, we do good, we fight evil. And you want to give that up?" That night you were so sick, they didn't think you were going to live 'til morning, I thought I'd lost you. I can't lose you, Sammy.

"I wouldn't be in school the whole year. I could come back for holidays, help you and Dad then."

"Oh, great. So we just tell any evil we meet to wait, please, 'til Sam comes home for Thanksgiving?" There aren't that many holidays. You'll be alone, unprotected, for most of the year.

"You and Dad don't really need me. You can get along without me."

"That's not the point. You have a responsibility." I could never get along without you.

"Yeah, I do! I have a responsibility to live my own life."

"I can't believe that you're being this selfish. Doesn't loyalty mean anything to you?" Don't do this, Sammy. Please don't do this.

Dean knew it was a low blow, accusing Sam of selfishness. But he was getting desperate. Sammy seemed serious about this college thing. He'd though he was willing to use any trick in the book to get Sam to reconsider. But now Sam's eyes were suspiciously bright, and he was looking like a kicked puppy. Great, Dean, just great. You know the kid's still fragile and you decide to scream at him.

"Look, Sammy, this isn't getting us anywhere. How about we take a break? I need to do a grocery run, anyway. What do you feel like eating?"

"Nothing," Sam mumbled, turning away. "Anything. I don't care."

After leaving the house, Dean sat at the wheel of the Impala for a few minutes before starting the engine, trying to pull himself back together. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. You start this discussion to get the whole thing out of the way so Sam and Dad won't yell at each other over it, and you end up yelling at him. Dean realized that his hands were shaking. He took a deep breath, then another, trying to calm himself down, as though he was in the middle of a hunt and the adrenalin surge was getting dangerous. It will be okay. Dad will deal with it. Sammy can't leave; we couldn't protect him if he left. Dad won't let him leave. It'll be okay.

By the time Dean had returned with groceries Sam seemed to have recovered. He even seemed to be trying to make up for the argument; coming to sit in the kitchenette while Dean cooked the hamburgers that he had decided on for dinner, and even managing to finish his share of the meal for the first time in weeks. By mutual consent they avoided the question of college. Dean was sure that John would sort it all out. He didn't know what Sam was thinking and for once he didn't want to know.

Dean had hoped that after eating a normal meal Sam would manage to have a normal night's sleep; but when his bladder woke him at about two he saw that Sam's bed was empty. The light was on downstairs and the house was peaceful, so Dean went to the bathroom before tracking his brother down.

Sam was back lying on the couch, his new copy of The Lord of the Rings in his hands. He looked up and smiled as Dean entered.

"Can't sleep?"

"No. Thought I'd try to read myself to sleep."

Dean reached over and took the book from his hands. 'You still reading this once a year?"

"I guess so."

"Which would make this, what, the seventh time through? I don't get it."

Sam looked thoughtful, eyes huge and deep. "I guess I find it comforting. Maybe it's because we move around so much, but it's good to have some things that don't change." Sam smiled at Dean. "Like you. It's kind of my literary equivalent of you."

Dean sank onto the arm of the couch, looking down at the little brother who held Dean's heart in his hands. 'I'm not sure that's a compliment," he tried to growl, but knew that Sam could see right through the assumed toughness. He won't leave. He can't. "Hey, you remember that Christmas you got concussion? Four, five years ago?"

Sam laughed. "I was being such a creep. You were trying so hard to take care of me and I basically threw everything back in your face."

"Hey," Dean defended Sam from himself. "You were what, fourteen; you had concussion and you were in pain; Dad was away; it was looking like a crappy Christmas."

"And you read me to sleep and when I woke up Dad was there and it was Christmas."

"Want to try it now?" Dean offered. Let me help you, Sammy.

Sam's eyes were again suspiciously bright. "Think you can cope? Hobbits, Dean, remember the hobbits."

"I can cope with anything you can throw at me," Dean boasted. "Bring it on."

"Well, the page's marked." Sam said, lying down again and closing his eyes.

Dean settled himself more comfortably on the arm of the couch and started:

For the few hours of daylight that were left they rested, shifting into the shade as the sun moved, until at last the shadow of the western rim of their dell grew long, and darkness filled all the hollow. Then they ate a little, and drank sparingly. Gollum ate nothing, but he accepted water gladly.

Dean read for almost an hour, until Sam had been breathing evenly for long enough that Dean was sure that the sudden silence wouldn't wake him. Then Dean kept reading silently, partly because he found himself unexpectedly drawn by the character of Faramir; mainly because of Sam's confession that he found it comforting. A weird security blanket; but then Sam had always been a weird kid. A weird kid who belongs with us, with this weird family. He'll never turn into Joe College. And for the rest of the night Dean kept reading; watching over his brother; and praying to any god that might listen that Sam would always stay close, stay where Dean could look out for him.

Next day Sam took the book back, and Dean didn't bother to read any further. Not until September.