Happy New Year everyone! Thank you all for the lovely reviews, and I'm sorry I didn't update sooner. I was braving the great white north! (Aka Canada. It's cold. Super cold.) I was almost as cold as our poor Sammy here ;) Enjoy chapter 4!

Sam thought he must be dreaming. He was snuggled up in blankets and layers, and he could feel the fleece rubbing against his frostbitten cheek. He wasn't in pain, so far as he could tell, and he wasn't cold. There was no way that this was real. This must be some last minute fantasy of a dying brain, or his life flashing before his eyes.

Yah, something along those lines.

So he waited. He waited for it to end. He waited for a bright light, or Tessa, or something…anything! But nothing came.

So, he waited some more. He was almost glad, truth be told. Not only because he hadn't died yet, but because this alternate dimension/subconscious universe was toasty, and he liked the feeling of the heavy wool socks on his feet. Maybe waiting here wouldn't be so bad.

The waiting was fucking killing him.

Dean was pacing back and forth in the small room, the white sterility of it all making him want to vomit. Sam had been out for almost two days, and every time the doctor would do his rounds, he would give him the same stupid face and they same stupid response: "Well, Dean. There's no change in your Brother's condition, but at least its not getting worse."

"No shit," Dean was tempted to yell at him. But yelling at the doctor would run the risk of getting kicked out, and Dean had barely left the cramped quarters for 48 hours. He wasn't gonna leave his brother. Not here. And not like this.

Dean walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge, careful not to disturb the IV and monitors. He lifted a weary hand and gently stroked the hair away from his little brother's face. He neatly tucked the bangs in, only to have them flop back down. Dean allowed himself a tired smile. Sam's hair had always been unruly. When he was younger, it would puff up in the humidity with huge curls and rat's nest. Dean used to tease him, saying he looked like Shirley Temple got struck by lightning.

"You remember that, Samantha?" Dean whispered, smoothing the covers with his hand. He knew it was stupid to hope for a response, but he found himself silently waiting all the same. When none came, he sighed. "Well, you take your time in there, Sam. Don't rush yourself. Not like I'm out here alone panicking or anything like that." Dean clapped his knees and stood, careful not to jar the thick cast around Sam's lower abdomen and upper thigh. The pelvis on his right side had shattered, but the surgeon said that with Sam's bone structure and excellent health, the screws the put in should last for the rest of his life, and the hip's mobility should almost be at 100 percent, as long as he stayed in shape and excercised it regularly.

Dean had assured him that there was no problem in that department.

Dean's eyes shot quickly to the ugly purple bruises covering the few inches of exposed skin on Sam's elevated leg. It looked like Andy Warhol had painted ink blots. The deep purple and black splotches decorated Sam's upper knee and lower thigh. The puncture wounds from where the beast had grabbed him were wrapped heavily, but angry red marks surrounded the bandages. Dark slabs of yellow and black danced around the edges of every purple bruise. All in all, it was sickening, and Dean made sure it stayed covered at all times. He told himself it was to keep Sam warm, but in truth, Dean couldn't look at the welts without bile rising into his throat. Dean couldn't imagine the pain, the fear, his brother must have experienced…

Dean shuddered. Now was not the time. Dean stretched, wincing at the sore muscles and itchiness of the stitches. Dean hadn't even realized until they had gotten to the hospital that the ice had ripped long gashes in his legs. They were no more than scratches, really, but the doctor had insisted on sewing them up. Dean scratched gently at them beneath his jeans. He had watched the doctor work, and frankly, he could have done better with a sewing needle and floss.

Dean groaned as he sat down. He was bored, and he was anxious. He wanted to just lie down and sleep for a week, but knew he couldn't. Dean shook his arms a bit, trying to force himself to stay alert. He had to be there for Sam when he woke up. He waited thirty years in Hell. He could wait another few hours for Sam to get his ass out of bed.

So he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Sam's chin snuggled deeper into the blankets. He could feel himself starting to wake up, and frankly, he didn't want to. This little world of his was soft and fluffy- basically everything reality wasn't. Sam mentally sighed, and shook his brain awake. He knew that Dean would be worried, and be waiting for him. Christ, the man probably hadn't left the room since they'd been admitted. Sam smiled.

Very carefully, Sam started to move his fingers. He checked for feeling in all of his limbs, and seriously assessed every inch of skin, all from within his dream state. He knew his hip was broken, and he knew he was covered in bandages and braces, but all in all, he wasn't too crappy.

Now for the big moment. Sam took a deep breath, wincing slightly when his sore rib cage expanded. First, Sam opened his ears. He wanted to make sure that there weren't any doctors around. God he hated doctors. It's not like they were bad people, or anything, but…well, you know. Sam tried to listen, but it sounded like he was buried beneath a mound of cotton. Everything was fuzzy and slurring together. It would take some time to regain his senses, but he also suspected this had something to do with the pain meds he was on, because man, did he feel happy.

Even in his drunken state, Sam could pick out a very distinct sound. It was a gravelly monotone, deep and tired sounding, but as comfortable and warm as lullaby. The voice continued, swelling and changing, letting out small chuckles here and there. Sam didn't even realize when he had actually started to hear things again, but when he did, he realized he was listening to a very familiar story.

"I do not like Green eggs and ham," Dean's voice went deep for one character and higher for the next. Sam wanted to laugh and crack a remark, but he mostly just wanted to savor this moment. Dean was reading him a bed time story.

"I do not like them Sam I am!" Dean paused, and Sam could hear him mark the page and close the book. "Ya know something, Sammy?" Dean's jacket rustled as he shifted in his chair. "You loved this book when you were a kid, man. You used to beg me to read it to you over and over again. You were convinced that the book was about you." Dean chuckled before continuing. "But you were also convinced that someday, a fuzzy little freak was gonna force green eggs down your throat." Dean smiled. "I used to tell you not to worry, that I would hunt the little bitch down if he tried." Dean laughed- a good, gentle laugh. One that Sam barely heard any more. Sam felt tears welling up in his closed eyes. Why is it that they could never talk like this when they were both coherent?

Sam was savoring the moment, just listening to his brother talking, until he sensed the change of atmosphere int he room. Dean's laughs had morphed into choked words, his nose sounded congested, and his voice wavered.

Dean was crying.

"A-And you used to say, 'I know, Dean. I know you will protect me. Cuz you're my big brother.'" Sam tensed, wanting nothing omre than to jump up and comfort his brother, but he couldn't move a muscle. Much to Sam's dismay, Dean continued.

"And you know the worst part? I believed it, too Sammy. I believed that I could protect you. But obviously, I can't. I failed, Sammy. And now…now, you're here. You're broken, and it's my fault. I should have been there, and I should have just waited outside with you. I should have found you sooner, or not fallen asleep on the couch! I should have…done something-anything differently. And this?" he gestured around himself. Dean paused, and took a shaky breath. "It should be me, Sammy," He cried. The tears were evident in his voice. "It should be me, laying there broken and comatose, man! I'm the one who deserves it. It shouldn't be you!" Dean's voice was wavering and the sniffling was constricting his throat. "This is my fault. And for that I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…"

Sam felt the pressure on the mattress as Dean planted his face into the blanket right next to Sam's chest. He was crying almost silently-Dean style. But it was crying, nonetheless. The younger Winchester could feel his heart breaking with every little heave his brother gave. He needed to comfort him, to tell him that it wasn't his fault, but he couldn't. Sam could barely move, never mind sit up and have a full conversation. But he was determined, and with a great effort, Sam felt his eyelids beginning to flutter. He pushed and willed himself to wake up, and hearing his brother next to him gave him one final shove.

The room was blindingly bright, but he forced himself to adjust. As quietly and smoothly as he could, he pulled one pale arm from beneath the covers. Dean didn't seem to notice. Sam reached across, willing himself not to cry out with the effort. He brought the arm down as silently as he could next to Dean's head. Stretching out his heavy fingers, he touched the top of Dean's head with one feathery finger. it was all the movement he could manage, but it was enough. "D-n? S'not your fault…" Sam felt exhaustion creeping towards him again, but he willed himself to stay awake for just another minute. That's all he needed.

Dean shot up, eyes wide despite their puffiness. "Sammy? SAM!" Dean was gentle, but couldn't help himself. He had to use every ounce of will to be gentle, but Dean lifted Sam up enough to wrap him within his arms. He held him, clinging for dear life, before Sam gave a slight cough, and mentioned quite calmly that he couldn't breathe. Dean let out a strangled laugh and repositioned a limp Sam on the pillow. Dean ran his hands over Sam's face, patting his cheeks, checking his temperature, cupping his jaw. It was all he could do not to jump up and down on the bed. "You son of a bitch! You scared the hell out of me!" Dean felt a weight soar off his shoulders. Sam was fine. He was talking. He was gonna be ok.

"D-n…" Sam managed a small grin.

"Yah? What is it? You need a doctor? Pain meds? Some real food? Say the word, man, and I'll get it." Dean looked earnest, and sincerely worried. Sam searched for his brother's hand, and when he found it, he held it with all his might.

Dean felt his brother's grip-it was as light as a feather.

"D-n, just…stay…'nd…lemme…sleep…" Sam let his eyes close as he watched the worry lines on Dean's face smooth out. The older brother smiled and nodded. Dean plumped the pillows and re-tucked the blankets.

"Night, Sammy." Dean pushed he hair away from his brother's closing eyes.

Sam tucked his head into the pillow, comforted by his brother's familiar touch. "D-n?"

"What? What's wrong?"

"Its…" Sam took a deep breath, preparing for sleep. Dean leaned in closely, sincerely concerned.

"Its…Sam…not S-mmy..." he sighed, the grips of subconscious tugging him under. A mischievously loving grin split Dean's face.

"Sure it is, baby brother. Sure it is…"

"I gave you one task, Larson. One simple. little. task." Luther glided forward menacingly, a cool calm tone hiding the building rage beneath. His expensive Italian shoes made no sound as he crossed the Oriental rug to the lounge. Larson followed him, dismayed to be leaving the warm glow of the fire at his back. He hadn't had a chance to dry off properly after the little swim him and the Winchesters took. He shivered just thinking about it.

"I-I know, brother, but-" Larson stammered quietly, trying to explain the unfortunate turn of events, but his meager excuses were silenced by the curt voice of Luther.

"Kill him! That's all I told you to do. Kill him quickly, quietly, and make sure you didn't get caught. Was that too much to ask? APPARENTLY! No, you had to go ahead and play with your food. Just swat him around a while, that it? .USELESS!" Luther lost control of his temper and flung the crystal glass of scotch in his hand across the room with deadly speed. He took pleasure in the horrific crashing sound the glass made as it collided with the jagged granite hearth of the mansion's great room. Scotch splashed into the blaze, causing the fire to hiss and sputter, swelling with the fuel. An orange glint from the swelling flames caught in Luther's eyes, and the terrifying glint in his eye made Larson cringe. He hated when his brother yelled at him. Larson shot a quick glance at the Grandfather Clock across the hall. It was nearly six in the morning, and he hadn't slept in almost forty eight hours. Larson didn't care what his brother had to say at this point-he just wanted to sleep. Best to just get this over with.

"Pease, Luther, I tried my best, I really did but the short one, he-"

Luther turned swiftly and grabbed his younger brother by the collar. His primordial power allowed him to lift Larson a good eight inches off the floor, until he was sputtering for breath and grabbing at the hand that squeezed his neck ever tighter.

"The short one, eh? Dean? That little Ass monkey? Sam, I can understand. He's huge, and tough, and too much of a man for the likes of you." Luther spat out, releasing his brother to the floor. Luther watched with an evil grin on his face as Larson choked for air, heaving and coughing through his crushed windpipe. "But Dean? The leather clad smurf?! Are you a fucking IMBOSILE?!"

Larson wheezed while his older brother ranted. "He's taller in person…" he muttered under his breath, tentatively trying to stand.

"What was that?" Luther glared at him.

"Nothing, brother." Larson pushed himself against the wall. Better to be out of the war path than in the firing zone. Perks of being a Wallflower, he supposed.

Luther seemed to forget that he should be beating the ever living shit out of his idiot brother. He was too busy worrying about that fact that now they had a pair of angry Winchesters that would no doubt be crawling up his ass as soon as they were discharged.

Luther pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel the migraine coming on. "Look," he began, waving dismissively towards his cowering little brother. "Just…Just leave me. Go. GET OUT!" Larson ran from the study like a dog with is tail between his legs. Luther listened for the foyer French doors to close before he shuffled over to the bar again. Pouring himself another scotch in a new glass, he contemplated his options. He could get the hell out of Dodge, or he could defend himself. And frankly, Luther felt he had worked much too hard on building his lavish estate to pack up and go because Bullwinkle and Smurfette had rolled into town.

"Oh for Christ's Sake…" Luther collapsed onto the sofa, head resting in his palm. He had known something like this was bound to happen. Larson was always the fuckup in the family, from day one, when he came pissing and moaning into the world. Luther had always been the strong, silent one. He resented Larson for it. Larson had always received all the attention from Mummy and Daddy, always their baby boy- the prodigal son. He was kind and sweet, but had nothing between the ears. Luther was the strongest, the quickest, the savviest, and the most powerful. But no one had ever cared.

Perhaps that's why it had been so pleasurable when he'd slit his parents throats.

"Well, Luther old boy," Luther tipped his cup forward into this mouth, the familiar liquor filling his throat with heat. "If you want something done right," he stood, grabbing his heavy winter coat from the rack by the study door. "You have to do it yourself."

Luther donned his cowhide gloves and switched his Italian wafers for heavy rubber boots. The wind whipped at him, nearly pushing him backwards. He felt a delightfully evil chuckle trying to escape from his lips. He could only imagine the pain and cold the younger Winchester had endured. The thought made him smile.

He opened the driver's door to the Ferrari and climbed in, blasting the heat. He would take the main road, and quickly. He would need time and careful planning to get into the hospital unnoticed. He would have to catch a doctor or nurse in the parking lot after their shift. Luther inwardly groaned. He particularly liked this skin he wore. He looked handsome, and quiet devilishly so, If he may be so bold. It would be a pity to switch with some common place nurse. But alas, so are the woes of life.

Luther pulled onto the road, satisfied at the sight of the groundskeepers shoveling away. The driveway was smooth and easy to maneuver, even in such a ditsy little Italian automobile. He activated his GPS and the route to the hospital shone bright from the dashboard.

The Winchesters would be caught unaware, especially at an hour like this. Sam would probably be infantile, if not still comatose. Luther scolded himself. He should not have waited so long to act. The moment Larson returned, he should have been out the door. It would be harder now, and no doubt perilous. But since when had his life been easy? It was monotonous and stressful, and being powerful was lonely. Not to mention, he was constantly surrounded by idiots. Luther rolled his eyes as he drove, remembering all the times his brother had ruined his plans. Their parents had considered them quite a team, before Luther had their tracheas removed. But what dear old Mum and Dad had always failed to notice, was how Larson always got himself into trouble, only for Luther to come pull him out again by the skin of his teeth. So many times, their plans had failed because of him. It was so frustrating!

Luther's knuckles gripped the steering wheel until they turned white.

This time, Larson would pay severely-But not until Luther had dealt with those pesky hunters. He had a bargain to hold up, and Larson had put him behind schedule. The King of Hell was not a man to be trifled with, and a deal is a deal. Besides, Crowley certainly had sweetened the pot. He must want these boys dead really badly.

Luther couldn't wait, and felt himself becoming excited for the first time in at least a decade. He would grab those boys, string them up, and strip the skin off their bones. They will die slowly. They will die painfully…

And they will die tonight.