Sam went down and Dean caught him. His brother's eyes were closed, his mouth barely moving.

The small congregation leant forward watching, praying. Dean ignored them, ignored their glances, the look of pity in their eyes. He grabbed Sam and enveloped him, dropping to his knees and hauling Sam up along his thigh, brushing back his unruly hair and staring, with concern, at his pale, thin face.

"Take him home," the priest said, soft and sudden, and Dean looked up to see compassionate blue eyes gazing at him, "he needs to go home now."

Dean stared at the priest. He wanted to ask so much, wanted to know so much. He bent down over his brother's prone body and Sam stirred, eyes opening just a slit.

"Dad?" Sam mumbled. "Daddy."

"Sammy," Dean's heart contracted. He could feel the gentle throb of Sam's heart under his hand; hear the rattle of Sam's laboured breathing. His breath caught in his throat and he swallowed, his hands trembling, "Sammy," he was aware of how vulnerable, how pleading he sounded, "Sammy, don't leave me, please, don't go now."

Sam frowned, eyes still closed. Dean lifted him, hauled him into his arms as if he were a feather, light and skinny from his illness, all the finely toned muscle gone. Dean was shaking, trembling, fear, irrational and cloying, rushing through his veins. Sam shook his mouth moving.

"Daddy," he said again.

Dean staggered down the aisle and out of the creaking oak doors. He kicked them open and carried Sam down the path and laid him, gently, into the back of the Impala.

He sat in the passenger seat, laying his head on the steering wheel of the car. He tried to calm his breathing, tried to stop his trembling. His brother was in the back seat of the car, talking to his dead dad and he was sure, positive, that Sammy was dying.

The car rumbled into life and he pulled out slowly, keeping quiet, no music, nothing. He wanted to be able to hear Sam's laboured rattling breaths, wanted to hear Sam's soft murmurs, his voice, harsh and pleading.

"Dad," Sam said again and Dean gulped back tears, his hand reaching into the glove box to pull out the gun. It felt heavy in his hand and he let it rest at his side as he drove on, the wheel gripped tightly in his other hand, his eyes on the road.

The house was warm, cosy. He put on the standard lamp and lay Sam on sofa, his hands in his brother's hair.

"I'm gonna call the doc Sammy," he said, false cheerfulness, "I'm gonna call him and everything is gonna be fine. Don't leave me Sammy, please, don't leave me now."

"Dean," Sam's eyes snapped open, "Dean – where? What the hell?"

"Sammy," Dean let out a breath, his head spinning to a stop, "Sam – God – Sam."

"I feel weird," Sam put a hand to his head and rubbed it, frown lines appearing between his brows.

"Bad weird or good weird?" Dean knelt beside his brother and kept his hand rubbing through his hair. Tears prickled on his lashes and he held them back so that Sam couldn't see.

"Just weird," Sam snorted a little, his mouth curving up, his eyes full of concern, "what happened Dean – that priest – he touched me – I heard dad Dean, dad told me everything was going to be alright."

"You just went down man," Dean gulped back stupid tears and sat back on his heels, studying Sam. His brother looked pale, stunned but ok and he was still here, still here, still with Dean, "you just went down and then – then you just started – started talkin' to dad."

"I…" Sam swallowed, "I heard him Dean, felt him almost, he – it was as if he were here."

"I thought you were going Sam," Dean felt foolish then, cheeks stinging with colour, "thought you had – you know – seen the light so to speak, thought you were…" he gulped again and rubbed at his face. Sam quirked an eyebrow, dimples showing.

"I'm not going anywhere without you big brother," he said, softly, "I promised that."

"Dad's dead Sammy, dad's dead and he went into the light – so – if you are hearing him – what was I supposed to think Sammy, what was I supposed to think."

"Dean," Sam opened his arms and Dean went into them without hesitation. He pressed his lips to his brother's hair and clung on, "Dean, listen to me, remember in Nebraska? Remember how you felt cold? How you felt wrong? This didn't feel wrong Dean, it felt weird, but it didn't feel wrong."

"Do you think…?" Dean trailed off, hardly daring to believe, "do you think that – that it worked Sammy? Did you think we have actually caught a break here?"

Sam swallowed and pulled his brother closer.

"I'm praying Dean" was all he said, "I'm praying."

TBC