Dean sighed – the volume and force with which he did so indicating his level of frustration with himself – and followed behind Sam, entering the motel room mere seconds after his brother in time to see the bathroom door close.

John – already changed into dry clothes – stood between the beds; his workstation prepared with the first aid and suture kits spread out on the bedside table; the pillows propped against the headboard awaiting his patient; and the corner floor lamp pulled closer to the bed with its shade tilted to provide more direct light.

John stared at the closed bathroom door, knowing a bad sign when he saw one.

His youngest had not verbally responded when John had called his name as the kid had entered the room; had glanced at John, obviously upset, and then had grabbed his duffel and had sought refuge in the one place that usually provided privacy when you were sharing a motel room with two other people – the bathroom.

And since Dean was not with Sam, that implied Dean was the reason Sam was upset.

Which meant the afternoon just got a whole lot more interesting; as if Sam's fall and its aftermath was not already enough...

John sighed and then looked over his shoulder as Dean burst through the open door and then slammed it behind him.

John tilted his head thoughtfully and gave his oldest a once-over as Dean stormed around the room; taking in the clenched jaw and tense shoulders; the narrowed eyes and mouth pressed into a hard line.

John sighed again. "Do I even want to know what this is about?"

"No," Dean replied curtly, reaching under his arm and throwing the blood-stained towel to the floor as he crossed to the table on the far side of the room.

John nodded; he thought as much.

But while John did not know the details of what had happened since he had left his sons at the pool – and probably never would – it was obvious Sam was now upset over more than just his fall. And Dean was silently fuming in the way he did when he had done something he knew he should not have and was pissed at himself because of it.

John cleared his throat. "Dean..."

Dean shook his head warningly – not now, Dad – and barely spared John a glance as he snatched his duffel from the corner table – just as Sam had done seconds before – and then grabbed his boots from beside the chair before barging into the bathroom; no knock, no warning, no nothing.

John arched an eyebrow. So it was as bad as he thought; Dean having apparently screwed up with his little brother – at least in Dean's mind – to the point that he was not waiting for Sam's permission to make it right.

But if Sam was startled by his brother's intrusion, he made no sound of it.

John caught a brief glimpse of Sam; his youngest standing in front of the sink, still shirtless but already changed from his wet bathing suit into a pair of jeans.

And then the door closed again.

When several seconds passed in silence – no muffled voices, no vague sounds of movement from within the bathroom – John narrowed his eyes; unsure if his boys were having one of their I'm-pissed-at-you stare-offs or if they were doing their we're-having-a-meaningful-conversation-without-ever-saying-a-word thing.

Given the events of the past few seconds, either scenario was a good choice.

But the continued silence offered no clues.

"Well..." John sighed to the empty room and rubbed the back of his neck; hand slipping beneath the collar of his black t-shirt as his eyes scanned over the bed and the bedside table.

Everything was set up and ready to go, leaving nothing to do but wait.

And John hated waiting.

He sighed again and turned to the opposite bed, grabbing his journal from where he had tossed it on the mattress upon entry to the room, and crossed to the table in the corner.

John paused at the bathroom door, still hearing nothing – his children apparently telepathic ninjas – and then sank into one of the chairs, setting his journal on the table and flipping it open to review his notes from his conversation with Bobby earlier.

Hearing the faint creak of the wooden chair in the main room, Dean glanced at the bathroom door; knowing John was just on the other side; that their father knew what was going on and was waiting them out.

The realization was strangely comforting.

Dean glanced back at his brother.

Sam had not moved since Dean had entered the bathroom; was still standing in front of the sink, arms by his side, eyes wet and wide as he took in his own reflection; skin pale but cheeks flushed from a mixture of sun and tears; bottom lip oozing blood, which trickled down over the already dried blood to mix with the blood sluggishly flowing from the kid's busted chin.

Sam's gaze was fixated on the bottom half of his face; his hand slowly reaching up to wipe at the blood that was slipping down his neck and even over his right collarbone.

Not turning around, Sam's eyes darted to Dean's reflection in the mirror; his expression a mixture of renewed alarm and fear. Because knowing you were bleeding and having an idea that it was probably a lot of blood was quite different from actually seeing it yourself.

Still standing behind Sam, Dean dropped his boots and duffel to the floor and reached for his brother, slowly turning the kid away from the mirror.

Sam did not resist and stared up at Dean; his expression as open and trusting as it usually was; his hurt feelings caused by Dean's words forgotten in the midst of his renewed distress over his injuries and his confidence that Dean could somehow make it better.

Sam blinked rapidly. Dean...

Dean cupped the back of Sam's head, gently squeezing his brother's neck. You're okay.

Sam held up his blood-stained hand as proof to the contrary and continued to blink against fresh tears.

Dean shook his head – it's not as bad as it looks – and wiped the blood from Sam's fingers with the hem of his own wet shirt before shuffling Sam to sit on the closed toilet seat.

Sam watched as Dean reached above him, taking a washcloth from the shelf on the wall and running it under the faucet; wringing out the excess water in the sink before crouching in front of him.

Sam's hands rested on his thighs, nervously bunching the fabric of his jeans.

Dean smiled softly. Relax...

Sam nodded and swallowed, closing his eyes as Dean began to gently clean away the blood coating Sam's mouth and chin.

After a couple minutes, Sam flinched, his eyes snapping open. Ow!

Dean winced in sympathy – sorry – and narrowed his eyes to further inspect the space between Sam's chin and bottom lip.

Because now that the majority of blood was gone, Dean could see there was a separate cluster of small cuts in that area; a classic skin-against-concrete scrape that was not unexpected given Sam's fall but had certainly been unnoticeable a few minutes ago.

Sam arched an eyebrow. What?

Dean shook his head. No big deal.

Sam sniffled and nodded, allowing Dean to continue to dab the fabric over the newly discovered scratches.

A few seconds later, Dean removed the washcloth, folding it to reveal a clean side, and then wiped Sam's neck and chest, clearing away a familiar mixture of fresh and dried blood.

Sam sat still as Dean completed his task; accustomed to his brother taking care of him when he was sick or injured but realizing this was also an apology in action; a confirmation that Dean was sorry for upsetting him earlier and a reminder that Dean would never intentionally hurt him or make him cry.

Sam blinked as Dean stood and rinsed the washcloth in the sink.

"My face hurts," Sam commented; all at once aware of the throbbing in his lip and chin and even along his jawline.

Dean glanced over his shoulder, ridiculously happy to hear his little brother's voice; even if Sam did sound hoarse from the emotion and exhaustion caused by the afternoon's events.

"Bet so," Dean agreed, his eyes sweeping over the bruising that was now especially prominent on Sam's pale, blood-free skin. He dropped the washcloth on the counter and then motioned his brother to join him at the sink as the water continued to flow. "There's dirt and concrete particles embedded in your chin."

Sam wrinkled his nose – that did not sound good – but nodded his understanding that Dean wanted to flush the wound before it was stitched up. "Yeah, okay," he sighed as he stood and then winced for his efforts, realizing his entire body hurt.

Dean narrowed his eyes, watching as his brother slowly crossed the few steps to the sink. "Sore, huh?"

"Kinda," Sam admitted.

Dean nodded. "You jarred yourself pretty good when you fell, Sammy," he reminded, squeezing Sam's shoulder when the kid was close enough to touch; then paused, realizing Sam's breaths were more even, and his brother had not coughed in a while.

Sam watched Dean watch him and then smiled knowingly. "It's better," he assured quietly. "My chest is still kinda tight, but it's better."

"I wasn't worried," Dean said even as he smiled.

Sam laughed. Yeah, right.

Dean's smile lingered as he shifted to the side and pulled Sam closer to the counter; easing his brother to lean over the sink before cupping his hand under the water and directing the flow from the faucet over the kid's chin.

Sam hissed sharply and squirmed as the rush of cold water hit his sensitive, split skin.

"Easy," Dean soothed, placing his other hand on Sam's bare back. "Almost done..."

Sam's hands fisted on the counter as he willed himself to hold still.

And a few seconds later, it was over; Dean was shutting off the water and pulling the hand towel from the looped bar mounted beside the sink; gently cupping Sam's chin with the fabric before lifting him up and back.

Sam stared up at Dean as his brother continued to apply light pressure over the bottom half of his face; vaguely aware that while it was becoming hot and stuffy in the small bathroom, the tile floor was still cold against his bare feet.

"Okay..." Dean sighed, lowering his hand and peering at Sam's chin. The wound was moist with a mixture of water and blood, but the edges of separated skin were finally clean; all traces of debris flushed away.

Sam blinked at his brother expectantly.

"Looks good," Dean reported, gaze lingering on the busted chin before shifting up to Sam's mouth. "And it looks like your lip is starting to clot, too."

Sam nodded.

Dean straightened to his full height while guiding Sam's hand to hold the towel in place. "Your chin is still bleeding a little, though, so keep pressure on it while I change clothes. Then, we'll stitch you up, and you'll be set."

Sam nodded again but looked away, feeling strangely uncomfortable that the discussion had turned to stitches again; especially since that was the topic that had derailed their conversation on the sidewalk.

Dean quirked a smile, knowing what his brother was thinking. "Hey..."

Sam hesitated but glanced back at Dean.

Dean paused, knowing he would regret this offer later but deciding it was worth it.

Because even though Dean knew his little brother had already forgiven him for what happened earlier – had seen the absolution reflected in the kid's eyes as Dean had cleaned him up – Sam still deserved an apology and would instantly recognize the offer as such.

Dean cleared his throat and then sighed. This was it. "How 'bout when we head out later, shotgun gets to pick music?"

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Sam tilted his head. "What?"

Dean smiled. "You heard me."

And Dean was right; Sam had heard "I'm sorry" loud and clear.

"Really?" Sam asked; his voice muffled by the towel he continued to hold it against his chin but his excited tone unmistakable.

"Really," Dean affirmed, already knowing what song he would have to endure back-to-back at least ten times on the drive out of town.

Sam paused. "But you hid the tape," he pointed out; his tone more reminding than accusatory.

Dean chuckled. He liked Queen as much as anyone, but there were only so many times a guy could listen to "Fat-Bottomed Girls" over and over before it started to seem like cruel and unusual punishment.

"Dean..." Sam prompted.

"Yeah, I know," Dean admitted. "But if I hid it, then I know where it is, right?"

Sam nodded and lowered the towel, beaming up at his brother. "This is gonna be so awesome!"

"Yeah, we'll see..." Dean remarked dryly even as he affectionately brushed Sam's bangs away from his eyes.

Because while Dean was sure "awesome" was not the word he would use to describe the experience that awaited him in the car later, it was definitely the term he would apply to how it felt to have Sam smile at him like that; to feel like he and his little brother were back on the same page again.

Sam smiled impossibly wider and then winced as the expression caused his split lip to stretch.

Dean frowned and reached for the towel Sam held, dabbing at the fresh blood. "Dude, I'm glad you're happy." He once again guided his brother's hand to cover the fabric and hold it against his mouth and chin. "But be careful, huh?"

Sam nodded as Dean reached around him, grabbing Sam's duffel from the floor beside the toilet and setting it on the counter before pulling out a clean shirt.

"Put this on."

Sam shook his head. "I might get blood on it."

Dean shrugged. "Then we'll wash it." He rolled the hem of the olive green shirt up to the collar and then stretched it wide. "Dad's got the air conditioning blasting out there..." he further explained and motioned for Sam to once again lower the towel from his face.

"Yeah, okay," Sam sighed as Dean slipped the shirt over his head and then took the towel so Sam could put his arms through the sleeves.

They stood in companionable silence for a few seconds – Dean giving Sam a once-over – before Dean nodded his approval and glanced over his shoulder. "Ready?"

Sam nodded.

"Good," Dean praised, giving the towel back to Sam before opening the bathroom door and leaning into the main room to see John sitting at the table, flipping through his journal. "Hey, Dad..."

John glanced up; relieved the waiting was over but not surprised to see his oldest standing there. When he had finally heard the boys start moving around in the bathroom a few minutes ago, and then had heard them talking a few minutes after that, John had known this moment was next.

Because Dean was raised as a soldier and often handled things as such, whether he realized it or not; securing the area – the bathroom; assessing the situation – a potential full-out meltdown from an overwhelmed little brother with injuries and hurt feelings; neutralizing the threat – by a combination of words and actions only Dean could balance; and then calling for backup – which was usually John's cue.

"Dad?"

John blinked, realizing Dean was no longer lingering in the bathroom's doorway but was fully in the main room with Sam standing beside him.

John's attention rested on his youngest; startled by how incredibly young and small Sam looked standing there with a towel pressed to his face. No wonder most strangers assumed the kid was ten-years old, instead of 12.

Sam shifted under John's scrutiny and glanced up at Dean.

Dean smiled encouragingly – it's okay – and hoped this was not a mistake; that he could leave Sam with John long enough for him to finally change out of his wet clothes and not have to worry about their father saying or doing something that would upset Sam all over again.

Dean sighed. "I'm gonna change real quick," he reported, his gaze flickering from John to Sam and then back to John. "Can Sam hang out with you for a minute?"

John frowned slightly, unexpectedly saddened that Dean sounded like he was politely asking a favor from a stranger.

Would you mind watching my kid? I won't be long.

Which was probably how Dean felt, but still...

"Dad?"

John blinked at the sound of Dean's voice and refocused on his boys.

Dean narrowed his eyes in annoyance at John. "Can – "

"I heard you," John interrupted and smiled his apology for his delay in answering. "And of course he can."

Dean paused before nodding. "Be right back," he assured Sam with a squeeze to his brother's shoulder and then disappeared behind the bathroom's door.

Sam stood motionless; his hand continuing to hold the white towel over his chin; his eyes impossibly large under his fringe of damp bangs as he glanced at the bed and bedside table and then stared at John.

John tracked his son's gaze; knowing that although Sam would put on a brave face when it was time, the kid was still nervous about the impending stitches.

Sam shifted where he stood, glancing back at the bed again and then over his shoulder at the bathroom door; unconsciously seeking reassurance from his brother even if Dean was not in the room.

John watched his youngest; always pleased that Sam knew he could rely on Dean but overwhelmed with the need to ease his child's anxiety himself; to distract and soothe.

"You know..." John began conversationally, and saw Sam focus on him as he closed his journal and leaned back in his chair. "Did I ever tell you about the time your mother had to stitch my hand?"

Sam's eyes widened – because John rarely talked about their mom – and shook his head.

"Didn't think so," John commented. "But believe it or not, your old man used to go fishing..." – which seemed like a lifetime ago – "...and sometimes your mom would go with me. And one day, I was trying to untangle her line and lost my grip on the hook and..."

Sam wrinkled his nose as John demonstrated how the hook had jerked upwards and ripped open his right palm.

"Hurt like a sonuvabitch," John admitted, resisting the urge to shudder even now, years after the injury. "But your mom, she was awesome."

Sam readily nodded; he had never doubted that.

"She didn't freak out, like you might expect a girl would do when faced with all that blood," John reported proudly. "Just reached right for the first aid kit she always carried in her bag. She leaned me up; declared it needed stitches; and then pulled out a suture kit."

Sam's eyes widened.

John nodded. "I know," he chuckled.

Because he had always teased Mary about being the world's most kick-ass Girl Scout; always prepared. But as John had become immersed in the life of a hunter after she had died, he had realized that description – hunter – actually fit better; explained Mary's heightened sense of danger, her somewhat unusual set of skills, and the things she never left home without.

The realization had initially been amusing to John – because there was no way Mary could have ever been a hunter. But as the years had gone by, John was not so sure. He had never allowed himself to dwell on it too much because it unnerved him; the thought of his wife having had a secret life.

But John was a hunter now, too; knew how to read people and situations. And as much as he loved Mary, too many details were left unexplained; too many things did not add up when examined in retrospect. While he was still unsure if Mary had been a hunter, John knew without a doubt that she had not told him everything about herself or her family.

And that had...

John blinked, suddenly aware that Sam had come closer and was staring at him expectantly.

John shook himself and smiled. "Anyway..." he continued. "She stitched my hand just like a pro. And while I've gotten better at stitching over the years – both stitching myself and others – I would say she was the first to show me how."

John held out his right hand – palm up – and Sam crossed the remaining few steps to the table until he was standing in front of John; his eyes scanning the faint, jagged scar he had always known was there but had assumed was from a hunting injury. The revelation that it was the result of a fishing injury – something so incredibly normal – somehow made Sam sad; proof there had been life before hunting...and he had missed it.

Sam's attention flickered up to his father's face.

John smiled warmly; his right hand reaching to pull Sam closer while the other lowered Sam's hand from his chin. "Let me see..."

Sam waited patiently as his father leaned slightly forward.

John's eyes narrowed as he inspected the clotted split lip and barely bleeding busted chin. "Looks much better than the last time I saw it," he remarked and winked at his youngest as he gently pressed the towel back over Sam's face; pleased that Sam seemed much less tense than before.

Sam nodded in agreement, his hands now resting on John's thighs as he continued to stand in front of his father.

There was a beat of silence.

John tilted his head dramatically as though confused. "Did you lose your voice?"

Sam smiled and shook his head; the towel marginally moving across his face as he did so.

John narrowed his eyes. "You sure? Maybe you left it out at the pool, 'cause I haven't heard you say anything since you came in the room, and I know how much you love to talk."

"Daaaad," Sam responded, still smiling; his voice muffled; his chin dipping in John's grasp as he said the word; his tone indicating he thought John was being silly.

Which was a good call, because that was exactly what John was doing; a father being silly to further soothe his son's nerves; to make his son smile.

"Oh, good. There it is," John replied; his voice overly relieved. "For a minute there..."

Sam laughed – the sound tired but genuine – and rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

John smiled and affectionately squeezed Sam's shoulder as the bathroom door opened, revealing Dean.

Dean had changed into jeans and a faded Led Zeppelin shirt; was wearing his boots; and was holding both his and Sam's duffels as he stood in the doorway. "What's so funny?" he demanded lightly, crossing to the corner to join his father and brother; eyes darting between both as he set the duffels on the table.

"I am," John responded seriously.

Sam laughed again and smiled up at Dean, reassuring his brother he was okay.

Dean nodded. "Oh, yeah. You're a riot, Dad," he remarked dryly even as he also smiled.

John chuckled, and then there was silence; the levity of the moment slowly draining – like air from a balloon – until the smiles deflated; each Winchester dreading in his own way what came next.

The widely discussed chin stitches.

TBC - Slight change in posting plans. One more chapter to go...