Eruthiawen Luin asked:

So I'm not 100% sure why but I'm always /hooked/ to kidnapped!Sam stories. Can you write something where he's kidnapped by hunters or witches or something because of his psychic abilities? Some hurt!Sam and badass!Sam, yesyesyes.

I set this during Season 2, post-Nightshifter. I warn you that this is a little bloody and gruesome.

Sam wasn't eating his breakfast; the short stack sat untouched on the table, all of his attention was focused on the files in front of him. Dean was nearly finished his second helping from the breakfast buffet.

"Sam, eat your breakfast," he ordered through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. Sam didn't even look up, just put out his hand and expertly scooped his mug of coffee up, taking a long sip. Dean sighed, "I mean food."

"One second," Sam muttered, eyes still trailing along the papers in front of him, "I'll just finish this."

Dean rolled his eyes. He leaned forward and yanked the files out of Sam's hands. Sam yelped in protest and tried to snatch it back but Dean stuffed the papers between himself and the seat. Sam scowled.

"Dude," he sighed, "Are you serious?"

"Deadly," Dean answered, quick as a beat, "Now eat your damn pancakes or you won't get the dead-people pictures back."

"Mortuary files," Sam corrected, slicing through the pancake stack with his fork in one angry motion. He shoved a bite into his mouth, chewing exaggeratedly before swallowing it all down. "Happy?" he asked.

"Only when you finish the plate," Dean said.

Sam laughed, "Jesus. Am I five years old?"

"Close enough," Dean shrugged. Sam tossed his napkin at Dean's face; Dean sputtered and yanked it away and back down to the table. Sam was laughing harder than Dean had seen him in a long time, maybe not since the Tulpa case in Texas. Sam went back to his breakfast, eating every bit without complaint. Dean knew Sam had been struggling lately, the kid had a lot on his plate; dead dad, hunted by the FBI, nearly killed by Gordon freaking Walker, painful visions, the knowledge that Dean might have to kill him one day.

Dean swallowed back the thoughts and tossed the napkin back at Sam, earning another laugh out of him. Dean couldn't help but join in. After they'd paid for their food, the two of them headed back to the motel room to change into their suits.

The victims had all been the same; throats slit, drained of blood, and reeking of sulphur. Sam seemed particularly intrigued by this case.

"It doesn't make sense," he'd said once he'd been to the morgue, "Drained blood makes me think of vampires, but vampires use their teeth, not knives. And the bodies smelled like sulphur… but that doesn't make sense either, we would know if there was another hunter in town. Besides, everyone knows a knife won't take down a demon."

They visited the house of the first victim; a sixteen year old boy. His mother was red eyed and teary, but she still insisted on making them tea. Sam accepted it gratefully; even earning a small attempt of a smile out of the woman. Dean always admired the way Sam was with people.

"I know this is difficult," Sam said softly, the woman suddenly burst into tears and Sam whipped a tissue out of his pocket and handed it over, "Take your time, please."

"Thank you," the woman sniffed, dabbing at her eyes. She took a moment to calm down before looking up, at Sam, Dean noticed. "What do you need to know?"

"Can you tell us about your son?" he asked, "How was he before he went missing?"

The woman swallowed deeply. "Josh was always so kind, sweet, a little shy. He had problems with bullies, had done for a long time, but he never let it get him down. If anything, it made him the wonderful person he was; he had an impressive talent for empathy, even for his bullies. He used to say 'you never know everything about a person, even the worst people could be suffering behind closed doors'."

"He sounded like he was a wonderful young man," Sam said gently. The woman smiled through her tears and nodded.

"One day, he came home from school… different. He was acting very unusually; angry, disrespectful. He seemed to enjoy how upset I got over it. I wondered if it was just all that unkindness he'd received catching up with him. But I never got to find out; he was gone the next day. I didn't see him again until, until…"

She burst into tears again.

"Thank you, Mrs Day," Sam said, taking her hand in both of his, "This information will be very useful. We'll do everything we can to find your son's killer."

She nodded, not able to get a 'thank you' out, and she showed them to the door. The other two victims were the same; regular folk, they had nothing in common other than they were good people who were suffering in some way.

"It makes sense if we're talking about demons here," Dean said, "They tend to go for people who are emotional vulnerable, right?"

"Right," Sam agreed, "But why would three demons show up in this one town? And why did all of the hosts die in the same way?"

"I'm betting we'll find out soon enough; this is too organised for it not to be something important."

Sam made a hmmm of agreement and they headed back to the motel room. Sam was on his laptop as soon as he set foot in the room; Dean took a seat on the end of the bed.

"You know, you can take a break, right?" Dean pointed out.

"Mm-hm."

"Well, why don't we get some takeout?" Dean suggested, "You can finish your research after you've eaten."

Sam chuckled.

"What?" Dean asked defensively.

"Next you'll be telling me to eat my vegetables," Sam smirked, "Or you'll cut the crusts off my PB&J."

Dean scoffed. "Whatever, dude," he said, "I'm just making sure you don't starve to death, which you seem determined to do."

Sam rolled his eyes, getting to his feet, he pulled his jacket from the back of his chair.

"Where are you going?" Dean asked.

"To get some takeout," Sam said, putting his coat on, "I saw a pizza place around the corner. What do you want?"

"All the meat they've got, peppers and onion," Dean said, smiling. Sam grimaced and muttered 'gross'.

"I'll be back in a bit," he said, closing the door behind him. Dean grabbed a beer from the mini fridge and relaxed against the headboard.

Sam tucked his hands deep into his pockets; it was a cold night. His nose was getting a little numb and he could see where his breath latched onto the air. He took slow steps, he wasn't in any hurry, and he'd wanted some time by himself. He'd needed air.

This case was really getting under his skin. Most things in their line of work didn't make sense, but this really didn't make sense. The deaths didn't follow the pattern of any kind of monster he knew. He thought of Josh Day's mother, how much it would hurt to lose someone in a way you can barely understand. Sam knew all too well. He still thought about Jessica every day. Once in a while, though not as often as before, he would have a split second before sleep and wakefulness when he'd think she'd be lying beside him in bed.

He shook his head, long strands casting over his eyes and he tried to push the thoughts from his mind. He looked up, the sky was a deep, dark blue, and the full moon was beaming brightly. He'd already considered werewolves, but the kills had taken place outside the full moon. He was really grasping at straws now, and he's promised Mrs Day that he would find the killer.

"Excuse me?" A soft voice snapped Sam from his thoughts. She was around his age, at least a foot shorter than him, and she was looking up at him with a hopeful smile on his face.

"Yeah?" Sam answered, "Are you okay?"

She smiled shyly, tucking a blonde curl behind her ear, she had daisy stud earrings. "My car broke down," she said, "Do you know anything about cars?"

"My brother's good with cars," Sam said apologetically, "But I could take a look."

She bounced a little on her feet. "Thank you so much!" she exclaimed and grabbed his elbow, pulling him to the other side of the road where her car was parked, the hood was popped open. She flipped her scarf around her neck and shuddered, "I would call a repair guy but I don't have enough money."

"Well, if I can't do anything I can call my brother," Sam offered, "He'd know what to do."

She grinned; her nose and cheeks were growing pink in the cold. "You're a saint," she beamed, "Honestly, I thought I was going to freeze to death out here. Oh, I forgot to say, didn't I? I'm Amy."

She held out her hand and Sam shook it. "Sam," he replied with a smile.

Sam smiled back and bent down under the hood to take a look. He frowned. "Do you have a flashlight?" he asked. Amy was looking away, Sam followed her gaze towards the woods a little way off.

"What is it?" he asked. Amy jumped a little.

"Nothing," she said, "What did you say?"

"I asked if you have a flashlight," he repeated. Amy shook her head, gaze wandering over to the wood again. Sam stood up straight, squinting out into the dark, "What are you looking at?"

Amy looked up at him sadly. "I'm sorry," she said. Sam took a step back.

"What are you sorry for?" he asked, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth he felt a sharp sting in the side of his neck. He grunted, finding himself quickly growing numb all over. His knees gave out but he tried to grab onto the car hood, fingers scrabbling weakly for grip against the icy metal. Amy's face was becoming fuzzy but Sam could still see the pitying look on her face as clearly as he had a moment earlier.

He fell forward, face pressing hard into the asphalt. He made an attempt to push himself up again but his body refused to budge, leaving his nerveless hands to crawl slowly for the knife in his jacket pocket.

He didn't make it far before his hands gave up too. The knife was left useless by the car's front wheel.

He could hear people talking, muffled female voices. He could see Amy talking to someone. He could barely make anything out other than silhouettes. The car's engine revved and he was being dragged along, the gravel scraped at his skin. The last thing he remembered before everything went dark was someone trailing soft cold fingers down his cheek like an old lover.

Dean flicked through the TV, finding nothing of much interest. He could use a good action movie; he and Sam could hang out and eat pizza. Or a horror; the two of them always found amusement in the characters flapping around and squawking, not even thinking to pick up a bag of salt.

He checked his watch. Sam had been gone for just over thirty minutes. He cleared his throat and leaned back into the cushions. Sam was fine, he reassured himself. Sam was just getting pizza, not arrested by the FBI, or stuck somewhere having a vision by himself, too out of it and in too much pain to move.

Or maybe Gordon had escaped from prison and was making good on his promise. Dean grabbed his phone off of the nightstand and called Sam's number on speed dial.

Dean waited impatientlyas the phone rang.

"This is Sam."

"Sammy, where_"

"Leave me a message."

The tone rang out and Dean flipped his cell shut, trying to ignore the tightening feeling in his chest. Sam always picked up his phone.

Maybe it wouldn't hurt to go down to the pizza place to meet up with Sam. That was fine; he was just going for a walk, really. That wasn't mother-henning at all. Dean was already yanking on his jacket and boots.

He hopped down the motel steps and ended up at a light jog, making it to the pizza place in five minutes. That only made Dean more worried, Sam should have made the journey in the same amount of time with his freakishly long legs. He pushed into the pizza place, almost barrelled, causing the man behind the counter to look up.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"Yeah," Dean answered, walking over to the desk. He cast a glance around the small shop at the people sitting around for their pizza. "Did a guy come in here earlier? He's got dark brown hair, kinda long, he's really tall, about 6"4."

The man's forehead crinkled as he tried to recall. "I don't think so," he said, "And I would know, we haven't had a lot of customers in this evening."

"Goddamnit, Sam!" Dean cursed under his breath, already dashing back out onto the street. He retraced his steps back to the motel. It was dark and freezing and he was feeling sick to his stomach with worry when he noticed a glint in the corner of his eye. The streetlamp was reflecting off of something small and metallic. Dean hurried over the road to see what it was.

He picked up Sam's knife, which had been lying abandoned by the side of the road. He suspected that Sam hadn't made it to the pizza place because he'd seen something across the road, he looked up at the dark forest. Maybe Sam had gone to check it out, but whatever it was had disarmed him before he could get a hit in. The knife was clean of blood.

He checked the surrounding grass. It was damp at night and the grass was muddy. He could see no sign of Sam's footprint, and Sam had a heavy foot tread. There were smaller foot prints, coming from the trees, the mud had trailed onto the road. Dean guessed a group of women. Or dudes with tiny feet.

But Sam was a big guy; he would be able to defend himself against a group of women. Even if they had been supernatural, wouldn't he have gotten a hit in before he went down? Dean scanned the area, crouching low to the ground.

There were small pieces of torn thread; the same murky green colour of Sam's jacket. He'd been dragged, which means Sam was in no state to try to get away.

At least that ruled out the FBI or another vision. He wouldn't put it past Gordon Walker to be so messed up but Dean would know if that psycho was out of jail. The case and Sam going missing were connected; there was no doubt about it.

Sam was taken, by a group of women it seemed.

"Oh fuck!" Dean cursed, "Please don't be witches."

Sam came to slowly. His nose started working again first; cold, damp, coppery, sulphur, burning candles. Then his ears; women talking.

"He's handsome, isn't he?" someone said. He felt a hand on his cheek but he didn't have the strength the flinch away.

"I suppose so," another said, more serious-sounding, "But he's not here to be handsome."

"No," the first one agreed, "But a girl has eyes, you know?"

Sam began to feel his whole body again. He was cold, the breeze sent a chill across his bare skin, he was lying on something flat and hard, chilled like stone. His breathing began to pick up when he noticed there was rope bound tightly around his wrists and ankles.

"I think he's waking up," a new voice said. No, he recognised it. Amy.

"Sam?" someone was close to his face, he could feel their warm breath against his cold skin. With effort he managed to pry his eyes open, coming face to face with a red and white grin. She was attractive, but in a sharp, severe sort of way. All angles and contours. Her hair was black as pitch, her lips were painted deep red. But her eyes were what pierced through him; a pale blue, rimmed with black.

"Good," she praised, "I wondered how long we'd be waiting for you. You were only supposed to be out for a little while. Maybe you're a lightweight."

She chuckled, standing up to her full height. She was slim and willowy, graceful and dressed in black. She sent a spike of fear through Sam's gut.

"Wha's goin' on?" he asked, still trying to get his tongue to work. He yanked weakly at his constraints.

"Give your body a moment to wake up," She said, "I'll explain in a second. Don't worry."

Sam couldn't help but worry. He peeked around. It was dark but he could see that they were in a graveyard, one that likely hadn't been used in years judging by the rotting stone. He could see the full moon peeking through the tree branches above, casting a soft glow over him. He realised he was strapped to a chest tomb.

"This is a ritual," he realised breathlessly, he noticed the altar only a small distance away, one of the women was lighting candles.

"You would've figured that out earlier," the woman in all-black said, "But I suppose that's our fault for drugging you, only you wouldn't have come quietly, would you?"

"What are you going to do?" Sam demanded.

She sighed and leaned on the edge of the tomb. "I'll introduce myself first. I'm Selene."

Sam didn't reply.

"I'm a witch," she went on, "And you are a very important person, Sam. I've been around a long time and I've never met someone like you. I've been looking for you for a while."

"Why?" Sam asked, "Why am I special?"

"Because you are," Selene replied, looking almost pitying, "My sisters, Amelia and Marina, and I have been waiting for this for a long time."

"What are you going to do to me?" Sam begged, "Is it because of my visions?"

"And so much more," Selene said softly, "You have no idea how much raw power is buried under there, do you?" She swept a hand lightly over his chest.

"What are you talking about?"

"You'll see," Selene promised, "We have a ritual to make you all you can be, and ever faithful to the ones who freed you, we'll all be indestructible."

Sam shuddered. "Will I still be me?"

"An interesting question," another voice answered, Sam guessed it was Marina, "But we can think about that later. We only have a small gap of time to do this so stop flirting, Selene."

Selene chuckled. "We'll get started then," she looked back down to Sam, "We needed the sixth month's full moon and a long forgotten graveyard," she explained, "And the devil's own shall be bound above a killer."

She gestured to the small tomb Sam was bound to. "He murdered his wife," she whispered to Sam.

"Selene," Marina hissed, she stalked over and pulled Selene away, "We should get started."

Marina handed her sister a knife. "W-what's that for?" Sam demanded. The two witches looked over to him.

"We need to carve symbols," Selene explained, "Into your skin."

"What?!"

Marina shrugged. "Sorry," she said, not sounding at all apologetic, "Amy, get the blood ready!"

Amy hurried over, setting tall glasses of red liquid on the stone around Sam's near-naked body. Sam could smell the sulphur straight away.

"You were draining demons," he realised, "Why?"

Amy stopped what she was doing a looked down at him, frowning. "You don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

"Amy!"

She disappeared from Sam's line of sight again. The three of them were moving around, arranging the ritual. He couldn't stop his heart from picking up speed, his chest from panting. Selene returned, knife sharpened and ready, she took his face in her hand and brought the blade down to his chest.

"Don't, please-," he begged. Selene smiled, stuck the knife into his skin and dragged it along. Sam couldn't stop himself from screaming.

Dean smiled triumphantly. It seemed that witches didn't think to toss Sam's cell, even after rejecting all of Dean's calls. He managed to pick up the coordinates; Sam was still in town, near a burned-down church. Dean knew that couldn't mean anything good.

He grabbed his jacket, dialling for Bobby as he did.

"Dean?"

"Hey, do you think you could drive over to Decatur County, Iowa?" he asked, rushing out the door.

"I'm in Fort Dodge," Bobby answered, "About two hours out. What's going on?"

"Witches got Sam. I'm pretty sure," Dean said, "Took him to an abandoned cemetery. Sounds like they're going all out, I could use all the help I can get."

"I'm on my way," Bobby promised, "You watch yourself, boy, hear me?"

"You got it," Dean muttered distractedly, hopping into the Impala, "Call me when you get here."

"Dean-," he didn't hear the rest of what Bobby was going to say before Dean hung up, he sped down the road.

Sam thinks he might have passed out, but when he opened his eyes again, Selene was down to his legs, still carving. He could feel his entire body shake, but he couldn't feel the cold anymore. He was hot, too hot, burning all over.

"Amy," Marina called, "You can start the other symbols now."

Amy nodded and rushed over. She had a paint brush, which she dipped into one of the glasses. She put it to Sam's forehead and painted, he could feel the thick, congealing liquid as she painted his cheeks and chin too. She went onto his chest, painting over the slices in his skin. Sam wished he would pass out again.

Marina was chanting, saying something in a language Sam wasn't familiar with. She was getting louder as she went, repeating words, crying them into the silent graveyard. He only just realised that Selene wasn't carving anymore; Amy was almost done painting his legs. Then the three of them were all around him, holding up a glass of blood each. He didn't have the energy to move when they poured it out over his hands and feet. Then Selene was at his head, tipping it into his mouth. He choked and sputtered but it still went down.

He could feel it settling in his stomach; thick and sticky and dirty. He felt nauseous but he couldn't bring the blood back up. Feeling was coming back again, spreading down his arms and into his fingers. He felt light and heavy all at once.

The last words of the spell were chanted and Sam felt fire run through his veins. There was chaos inside of him.

Dean turned the car into the side of the road; the path to the graveyard had overgrown long ago. He dashed down, kicking tangling roots out of his way. He would see a small glow of light in the distance and he pushed on faster.

The woods seemed to be trying to hold him back, branches smacked him in the face, scratching his cheeks. Thorns latched onto his jacket and he hacked at them with his knife.

Then there was the screaming. He hurried forwards, nearly falling over tree roots. The wood was so thick and alive.

He stumbled into the clearing, knocking his senses off for a split second. He clambered to his feet, righting himself. Dean held his gun out, swinging it up, and ready to shoot. It took him a moment to realise what he was facing.

"Sam?"

It was like a scene from a painting; so still but so chaotic at once.

There was an altar, candles, Dean knew the signs of a ritual. This had been a serious spell. The yard was small, crooked and rotting. Two witches cowering behind gravestones, the crumbling stone barely hiding them. A woman was on the ground; black hair, black dress, pale blue eyes and a broken neck.

Sam was standing above her; taller than Dean had seen him, painted red over his pale white skin. Blood was all around his mouth, on his hands, everywhere. When he looked up Dean could swear he saw yellow flash in his brother's eyes.

"Sam?" Dean called hesitantly.

His little brother just stood staring back at him, the way a lion observed a zebra. He took a step forward and Dean couldn't help backing away. Sam's fingers twitched, the knuckles cracking. Dean's heart was pounding in his chest and he realised how scared he was of his own little brother.

He said I might have to kill you, Sammy.

Dean and Sam stared at one another. Sam's eyes were fiery, hungry, wild. Dean couldn't see his brother in them. Dean was searching, for anything that he might be able to grab a hold of, any piece of Sammy to pull back.

It was so quiet and Dean thought that maybe the fact that Sam hadn't gone for him yet was a good sign. But then Sam stepped forward and Dean gripped his gun tighter, completely unsure whether or not he'd be able to use it. There was a crack from behind; a twig snapping under someone's foot. One of the women had tried to make a run for it when Sam had turned to Dean, but Sam was fast. He whipped around and stretched out an arm.

The witch was flung aside, head smacking into a stone. She whimpered as Sam advanced on her. Dean took the opportunity and dived for the altar, tossing the thing over, smashing the objects under his feet.

There was a crack and another witch was dead. Sam looked to Dean again, head whipping up, eyes latched onto him.

"Sammy," Dean called, arms held out in surrender, he set his gun down on the ground, "You in there, little brother?"

Sam cocked his head to the side.

"I don't know what they did to you," Dean went on, taking a cautious step forward, arms still held up, "But you can fight it. I know you can."

Sam stared at him longer, eyes narrowing on him. Dean wondered if Sam could hear him.

"Trust me, Sammy."

He blinked at him, and there was a long second when Dean thought his brother might attack but Sam just gasped and fell to his knees, crying out in pain. "Dean!"

Dean rushed over to his side, holding his shoulders firmly so he wouldn't keel over.

"God! It's in me, Dean," Sam cried, groaning, a hand grabbing at his sweat hair, "They opened it all up."

"Opened what?"

"My powers," Sam choked, sucking in a shaky breath. The last witch tried to creep away but Sam shot up and pinned her to a tree almost by instinct. Sam held her there, both hands clutched to his head. There were tears gathering in his eyes.

"Reverse it!" Sam demanded.

"I-I don't know how," the witch gasped, she had turned as pale as her blonde hair, "My sisters, they…"

Sam cried out with frustration and yanked his hand to the side, she broke off with a gasp, dropping to the ground. She didn't get up.

Sam's whole body seemed to drain the moment the witch died and Sam fell into Dean, arms falling limply to his side, his head lolled onto Dean's shoulder. Dean caught him and held him tightly in his arms, one hand on his back, the other on the side of his face.

"You with me, Sammy?" Dean asked

"It's gone," Sam whispered with relief, his voice was small, painful sounding.

"Because the witches are dead," Dean guessed, "Are you in pain?"

"Mm-hmm," Sam murmured. Dean held him at arm's length and Sam seemed to be trying very hard not to crash back into him.

"Jesus," Dean hissed, getting a good look at the carved symbols in his brother's chest, "What happened?"

"They-they wanted me to be stronger. Said it was in me," Sam gritted out painfully. He gasped and hunched in on himself. Dean held him steady.

Sam's head was hanging, hair dangling over his red-painted face.

Dean didn't know what to say. He patted Sam's cheek reassuringly, partly to assure himself that Sam was there. "Come on, Sasquatch," he said, gently sitting Sam up, "We need to clean you up."

He hauled Sam to his feet, but the kid was nearly all limp and therefore a bit of a dead weight. Dean helped Sam stumble back to the Impala, taking most of his weight, an arm flung over his shoulder. It was a frantic dash back to the motel and Dean panicked when Sam passed out halfway there. He roused enough to help get himself up the stairs before falling unconscious again in the motel room.

Dean stood and stared at his brother for a while. Sam was laid out on the once-clean bed sheets which were now staining red. There was so much blood. Dean wondered how Sam was still alive he checked Sam's mouth for the source of the blood on his lips but he couldn't find anything. He began to worry about internal bleeding, wishing desperately that Bobby would get there soon.

Dean washed the blood from Sam's face, being gentler when he dabbed at the wounds. He hissed in sympathy; Sam was going to need a lot of stitches.

"Dean…" Sam's voice was raspy. Dean looked down to see his brother's eyes open to slits. Sam was sleek with sweat, getting hotter by the second

"Yeah?" Dean replied softly, setting the cloth back down.

"Gonna be sick," Sam groaned. Dean was quick as a flash, grabbing the tin trash can and pulling Sam up just in time. Sam retched, his whole body shuddering. It was a long five minutes as Sam heaved before he was spitting into the bucket. He leaned back with a gasp when he was done.

Dean set the can back down, freezing when he noticed all of the vomit was bloody. He looked up to Sam's mouth which was wet and red again. He quickly wiped it up.

"Sam, I think you need a hospital," Dean said. Sam rolled his head away and pressed his head into the pillow.

"Nuh," he breathed out, "M'fine."

"Sammy, you just puked up blood," Dean pointed out.

"Not mine."

Dean frowned. "Huh?"

"Not my blood," Sam spoke carefully, though his voice was shaky, "They made me drink it."

Dean got to his feet, running a hand over his face. He felt sick. "Jesus…"

"M'sorry," Sam mumbled.

"Not your fault, kiddo," Dean reassured him, brushing a hand over Sam's hair, "What exactly happened?"

Sam swallowed noisily and Dean quickly grabbed him a glass of water, waiting a minute for him to drink some. Sam set it back down on the bedside table with jittery hands.

"They wanted to make me their attack dog," Sam said, his voice was quiet and raw-sounding, "They had a spell to make me powerful… carved me up like a Christmas turkey."

He chuckled bitterly. "Then they painted on me with blood," he went on, looking paler, "Made me drink it."

He looked away shamefully. "One second I could barely move, the next I was snapping out of the ropes without breaking a sweat. Then I was just so angry. I just wanted to kill them."

"I know," Dean said softly, pressing a cold cloth to Sam's forehead, "Don't blame you. I would've gutted the bitches myself if you hadn't gotten there first."

"I don't remember much after that," Sam said, his voice hitched and Dean realised he was crying, "My head felt like it was on fire. Then you were there…"

"Sammy, go to sleep," Dean ordered, though he spoke gently. Sam was hot and weeping and definitely feverish. "It'll all be better when you wake up."

Sam closed his eyes and he sobbed for a few minutes before his breathing levelled out.

"Dean…" Sam whispered sleepily, "Don't let me get that far next time."

He fell asleep before Dean could respond. He stayed at Sam's bedside, checking which lacerations would need to be stitched as he cleaned them, keeping a cold cloth pressed to Sam's face, waiting for Bobby to arrive.

Wishing he could keep his promise to watch out for Sammy.

Wishing he felt a little less alone.

This took way longer than intended to write, I kept adding to it when it turned out too short. It was a good challenge though to write out of my comfort zone (If you hadn't noticed I'm a big fan of writing pre-series and AU)

I hope you liked it, please review :)

Next up is shannanigans.