Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters in Supernatural, I just borrow.

Thanks for all of the reviews and reads!

The next few minutes seemed to drag on for hours. As John ran over to Dean, his eldest, his amazing, intelligent, brillant son, he was terrified. Dean had just fallen from two, maybe three stories up, and he wasn't moving. At all.

Sam was dragging himself towards his brother, holding back a scream. He'd never seen Dean truly broken before; he was his strong, capable older brother.

But now, splayed out on the ground, Dean was shattered.

"Sam, DON'T MOVE!" John shouted at his youngest son. But Sam had never been particularly good at following orders-he continued his slow, steady army crawl towards Dean.

John cursed under his breath-Sam was going to aggravate his own injuries. But he didn't have time to fight his son-he had to call an ambulence. Dean probably had broken bones and ruptured organs-he needed to be at a hospital, as soon as possible.

John grabbed his cellphone, and dialed 911-but there was no signal. He was beginning to panic; clouds were rolling in, he couldn't call an ambulance, and his care was parked two miles away.

He knew there was only one option; to grab Dean, run to the car, and send help back for Sammy.

Dean would never forgive him-he would never forgive himself if Sam got hurt-but this was how it had to be.

John ran back over to his sons. Sam was sitting by Dean's side, clutching his arm and sobbing in agony. Dean was just laying there, eyes closed, his breath coming in short and uneven pants.

"Sam, I'm going to have to get Dean out of here," John announced, kneeling at his son's side.

A flash of pain appeared in Sam's eyes-he had always known that his father loved his brother more than him. John noticed, and quickly redirected.

"It's just that he's really hurt. He needs to get to a hospital, now," John explained. "I'll call for an ambulence the second I get to the car, where there's service."

"Okay," Sam nodded, wincing in pain. "Be careful with Dean, Dad."

John pulled a pistol out of the waistband of his jeans, and handed it to Sam.

"If you see anything rustling, shoot first, ask questions later," John instructed nervously. He didn't want to leave his ten-year-old alone, in the middle of nowhere, with a broken leg and a potienally broken arm; but he didn't have much choice.

"I know, Dad," Sam replied. "I-I'll be fine."

John pulled off his jacket and covered Sam's legs with it. "Be careful, okay?"

"I will," Sam answered.

With that, John turned to the broken form of his fourteen-year-old. He had to be careful with Dean-if he irritated a spinal injury, Dean could be paralyzed for life.

With a last look back at Sam, John picked Dean up and began the race to the car, hoping that his sons would be okay.

John wasn't a praying kind of man, but as he rushed towards his care, he found himself bargaining with whatever higher power was up there.

If they're okay, I'll never leave them again.

Please, just let him live.

It was a struggle to carry Dean-although he was extremely light, he was tall. John felt like a failure as a parent-he couldn't even make sure that his son was eating enough.

When he reached his car, he slid Dean into the backseat and reached into his pocket for his phone. He opened it-still no signal.

It was beginning to rain, and John was caught between a rock and a hard place.

He could drop Dean off at the hospital, and turn around-but Sam would be alone for a while. If Sam was seen, John was screwed.

But he really didn't have a choice.

And so he got into the car and sped off in the direction of the nearest hospital.

"Dean, you can't give up," John announced to his unconcious son. "We're a few minutes away from the hospital, you have to fight."

Of course, there was no response-only Dean's labored breathing.

A couple minutes later, there was silence. John looked back at his son-Dean wasn't breathing.

"DEAN!" he shouted. "Come on, you've got to breathe."

Of course, Dean didn't reply.

John hit the gas and sped down the road, determined to save his son.

When he reached the hospital a couple minutes later, he parked right in front of the double doors. He threw open the back door of the Impala, grabbed his son, and ran inside.

"I need some help here!" John shouted, staring at Dean. His hair was matted with blood, and his lips were blue-he was dying.

"Right here!" a doctor in a white lab coat shouted, indicating a gurney. John placed his son on the cot and tore his eyes away from Dean.

Nurses and doctors were rushing towards the gurney, shoving John out of the way-he tried to keep Dean in his sights, but he couldn't.

As Dean was whisked behind the double doors, John almost fell to the floor. That was his little boy.

But he couldn't afford to be weak. He had to get back to Sammy. He had to drive him to Prescott Children's-he couldn't have two children in the same hospital, CPS would be curious.

"I need your insurance," the secretary at the counter told him, looking up expectantly.

John obliged, impatient. Sam needed him. He had to get back to him.

"Okay, I just need you to fill out this paperwork, and the doctor will get back to you as soon as he can," she told John, handing him a packet of papers. "You can take a seat over there."

"Is my son alright?" John asked. That's all he wanted to know; all he cared about. He could deal with the fallout later.

"I'm not sure, Mr. O'Brian," the secretary replied. "But they're working on him right now, and Dr. York is the best of the best."

John nodded and went back to his seat, worried. Not only was one of his sons hurt-probably being operated on right now-but he had another one who was alone in the middle of nowhere, with substantial injuries.

What was he going to do?