Author's Note: Hi everyone! So, just a reminder that tomorrow, I will begin posting the prompts that deal exclusively with Christmas. After Christmas, I will return to the order I had been going in (first come, first serve). So, for tonight, we have a prompt from Jeanny, who asked for "Teenchesters with Sam getting sick but John just thinking he's sulking and making them stay out all night hunting in the cold, Sam getting sicker and then hurt and lots of guilty!John after. You can pick what side Dean's on, either guilty of ignoring Sam or 'I told you so' or if he wasn't there just mad at John later." John is always a fun, yet challenging character to write so thank you for this prompt! This also marks the first time I've written in Sam's POV. I liked how it came out! Sam here is 14 and Dean is 19. Please enjoy!

"You sure you're feeling okay?" Dean asks me from his bed as he packs the last of his stuff in his duffel. His green eyes scan me critically before returning back to the various knives that he's now slipping into the bag. I suppress a sigh and pull myself up from the bed. Yeah, I'm not exactly feeling my best, but it's just a head cold. My nose isn't even stuffy and the only problem I'm facing is that my head feels like it weighs a million pounds. If I told Dad about it, he would tell me to suck it up—if he was even listening to me at the time. A grimace slips onto my face, but as quickly as it comes on, I force it back.

"I'm fine, Dean." I tell him seriously. He's off to Pastor Jim's for the week to brush up on his Latin and study some new exorcising techniques. He's been psyched ever since Dad told him he could go—Pastor Jim, while strict, had often let us get away with murder whenever we had gone to visit, provided we had done our work. My first memory of the kindly man was him sneaking me a cookie after Dad told me that I couldn't have one. He was different than Uncle Bobby—more refined—but he, like Uncle Bobby, had a heart of gold and had bailed us out numerous times. Plus, Pastor Jim was in Florida at the moment, helping out some congregation there and I had no doubt that Dean was excited to head to the beach and see all the girls.

Growing up, my brother had sacrificed so much for me. I wouldn't cause him any more trouble—he deserved to go on this vacation.

"You're sure? Because I can stay if—" I smile, because I know that if I asked him to, Dean would stay in a heartbeat. All I had to do was say the word and my older brother would call Pastor Jim right now and tell him he couldn't come.

"Go." I say with a grin.

He reaches out and ruffles my hair, a silent gesture of thanks.

"And if you need me—" Dean informs me for about the 100th time since he loaded up the Impala.

"I'll call, Dean." I reply dutifully. Dad sighs wearily and I can tell he's growing tired of our prolonged goodbye. Dean seems to notice this and a dark expression fills his face for the briefest of seconds before vanishing.

"See you later, Sammy." He gets into the car and grins at me before pulling away and leaving me with the one person I hated being around by myself—my dad. Recently, Dad and I hadn't been getting along. We seemed to fight over everything and it wasn't like I was trying to be difficult or anything. It's just . . . sometimes, I picture my life away from hunting. It's a normal—safe—life where I end up graduating from college and getting married to some beautiful girl with Dean as my best man and Dad happily watching from the front aisle. I get a successful career and I have kids that Dean spoils behind my back. There's never any talk of demons, never any need to put down the salt line.

It's just my family and me.

That's what I want in life. I don't want to be killed by something hidden the night. I don't want to spend my whole life moving from one motel room to another. I want a house to make a home in. I want Dean to live past his 30th birthday, I want Dad to move on from Mom's death and more than anything, I want all of us to be happy together.

It's just a dream though—that's what my dad would say if I told him. He would remind me of how my mother died to protect me, of how my mission in life was to avenge her and to kill the demon that had done this to our family.

I don't remember Mom at all. Sometimes, when I'm really sick or something, Dean will tell me stories about her. She sounds like she was perfect and I wish that I could've remembered something about her. When I was younger, I used to spend hours imagining things about her—how her eyes would light up whenever she saw me, how soft her arms would be when she held me—but as much as I imagined I knew her, deep down I knew that I would never know her like the rest of my family did. Dad and Dean are lucky in this way. At least they know whom they're fighting for.

I don't.

I never will.

"Let's get a move on, Sam." Dad's voice is gruff, but determined not to get into a fight while Dean's away, I choose not to comment upon it and instead get into the car. "We've got a job a few hours from here."

I nod my head and allow my eyes to close.

I dream of what Mom would say if she knew about my desire to be freed from hunting.

The next morning, my head feels like someone put a drill in it. The slightest movement and the drill fills my skull with the sharpest pain I've ever experienced. I feel like crap and even though it's childish, I wish Dean were here. He's always been able to fix things—to make me better immediately—but he's on vacation.

He deserves this. I won't take it away from him.

"Sam." I freeze, wondering if I could get away with just pretending to be asleep. But before I have a chance, Dad comes over and gently shakes my shoulder, which, in turn, jostles my head.

Blinding pain consumes me, and my vision whites out for a few seconds before I can finally make out my father's form, staring down at me. Biting my lower lip to prevent any whimpers of pain from escaping my lips, I push myself up.

"We need to go now?" I whisper, knowing the answer, but feeling the need to try.

"Yeah," Dad replies, lacing his boots. "We've got to check out the woods and find the bastard before it gets someone else."

Great. Knowing my dad we'll not only be out there all day, but all night too. Whatever it takes to get the monster. Never mind the sacrifices that we have to make to achieve his goal, never mind how I feel. What Dad says is law. We have to obey him. What kind of soldiers would we be if we didn't?

Anger consumes me, filling my veins and boiling up under my skin.

"I don't want to go." It comes out of my mouth in a jumble of words, but I'm proud for saying it. I've been tiptoeing around my dad for far too long. If I wanted out of hunting, then I was going to have to make a stand.

"What did you say?" Dad seems almost puzzled.

"I'm not going." I repeat slowly.

"The hell you are!" Dad growls, rising from the bed and tugging me up from my own. "If you think I'm just going to let you mope around because your brother left—"

"I don't feel good!" I protest, wrapping my arms around my chest, as my heart seems to leap into my mind, beating away like the loudest drum I've ever heard. It's awful. But, for once, I'm trying to be honest with my dad and in all honestly, I don't feel well enough to go wandering around in a forest looking for who-knew-what.

"Nice try," Dad remarks with a sigh. "Now, you have five minutes to get ready and get your ass outside."

With that, my dad exits the room, slamming the door behind him.

So much for that.

It's been hours.

We've been wandering around in this empty forest in 40-degree weather and we've come up with nothing. My head cold has seemed to take the cold as an invitation to take up residence in the rest of me. My nose is stuffed up, my eyes keep welling up with tears and my lungs feel tight. I want nothing more than to curl up under the covers and sleep for a week.

But, Dad will have none of that.

"You just miss Dean." Dad says simply, as if that can explain away all my symptoms. "You two need to learn that life goes on whether you're together or not."

"But Dad—"

"Enough, Sam," My father spats, eyes hardening in rage. "Until we find this son of a bitch, we're not going back. Now, you can either sulk or do your job!"

We keep looking.

Eventually, day fades into night. We've been out here at least 14 hours and we still haven't picked up a trace on whatever it is we're hunting. I'm about to open my mouth to say something, when I hear it—the crunch of leaves. I spin around to see that Dad has already pulled out his gun and he has it trained on where the noise came from. Suddenly, the figure bursts from the bushes, snarling. I can't tell what it is in the dim light, but the silver bullets Dad is firing seem to doing the trick. It stumbles back and bellows, as if he's cursing the heavens for his fate. I keep my gun trained on him, but let Dad take the lead. My vision is slightly blurred—partly from the long hours and partly from the cold—but I use every ounce of strength to keep my eyes open and focused on the creature. I'm pretty sure it's a Wendigo, but you could never know—

"Sam!"

Dad's shout comes a second too late for before I know it, the monster has its arms around my neck. Squeezing tightly, my throat constricts and I feel my lungs constrict from the lack of airflow. I fight back, but my vision begins to fade as the lack of oxygen kicks in.

My eyes shut.

I wish Dean were here.

Unconsciousness is a funny thing.

One minute you're awake and doing things and the next, you're trapped in this dark void. You're left hanging there, floating in space and while it's not exactly painful, it's also not comforting in the least.

Dammit, Dad! If he was sick, why didn't you—?
How the hell was I supposed to know! He didn't say anything and you weren't there, Dean!

Whenever I'm at school—which I try to go to as much as possible—I often wonder what other people's families are like. Do they fight? Do they have dinners promptly at 5:30pm around a huge table? Do they hate each other? Don't get me wrong, I love my family—really, I do—it's just sometimes I can't help but wonder what life would be like if things were different. If Mom was alive, for example, or if Dad had decided to quit hunting.

—should've never left you with him!

Watch your mouth! I am his father—!

And look what a great job you did! He almost died tonight because you didn't listen to him!

In all my hypothetical scenarios, we're all very happy. Too happy, probably, but hey, I'll take it. It's better than the anger and the grief that seems to plague us.

S'okay, Sammy. I've got you.

Still . . . if we were a normal family, I wonder if Dean and I would still be as close.

Probably not.

"Hey there, Sammy." Dean's sporting a tired grin and I wonder how long I've been out. We're at the motel room—I hate hospital visits—but seeing how my brother is back, at least 12 hours must've passed.

"D'n?" I wheeze, wincing at how my throat feels like sandpaper. Quickly, Dean offers me some water and I greedily gulp it down before he takes the cup away. Drinking too fast tends to make me sick.

"How are you feeling?" He's serious now and I wonder just how close I cut it. Dad's MIA, which means that Dean probably kicked him out. While Dean may be Dad's perfect little soldier, he did tend to get into arguments when it came to my well being.

"S'hurts." I manage to get out before dissolving into a cough.

"Yeah, I know kiddo," He shoots me a sympathetic smile before helping me get more comfortable on the bed. "The Skinwalker really did a number on you."

"Florida?"

"I didn't go." He tells me and I grimace. This was supposed to be his vacation. As I look away, a firm hand slips within mine and squeezes it. Dean usually avoids such physical contact—it's a "chick-flick" moment after all—and that fact that he's holding my hand gives me an indication on just how close it came.

Apparently, way too close.

"Hey," He starts seriously. "We can go next time."

"Your vacation." I pout and he chuckles dryly at my expression.

"Dude, after this, I think you need a vacation too." I smile. The door then creaks open and Dad steps in, sheepishly glancing over at Dean and me. My brother regards him coolly—they must still be fighting—but makes no motion to get rid of him. Dad crosses to the bed and affectionately cards a hand through my hair.

"How're you doing, Sammy?" He murmurs and all the anger I felt earlier disappears. True, I didn't want to hunt in the long run. I want out of this life, but for the moment, I'm stuck here. I may have lost my mom, but I had a father and a brother who cared for me. I was lucky in that way.

"M'okay, Dad." I wheeze and he frowns.

"Dean, a moment?" It's not an order, but a question. It's rare that my father asks for something and doesn't demand it. The fight he and Dean had must've been bad—bad enough that Dad felt like he had to get Dean's permission to be by my side alone. Slowly, Dean nods and rises from his seat next to the bed.

"Five minutes." He grinds out before stepping outside. With a world-weary sigh, Dad plops into the chair and meets my gaze.

"Sam . . ." His voice is soft and gentle—the utter antithesis to how my Dad usually was—and his eyes are filled with nothing but sadness. "I never should've let you go out there like that." He sucks in a breath, like the admission is a punch to his gut. Or maybe his pride? It's not often that the famous John Winchester is humbled by something. "I should've listened to you, Sam."

"What happened?" I manage to ask and Dad's eyes well up with grief.

"The Skinwalker got you," Dad replied quietly. "I killed it, but by the time it was dead, you were . . ." His voice faltered as if he was unsure if he wanted to recount this next part. "You weren't breathing son."

Well, that explained Dean and Dad's reactions when I woke up.

"Am now." I told him, feeling the need to comfort him somehow.

"But you weren't!" He shouted and I flinched back in surprise. "God, I'm sorry, Sammy."

"Dad—"

"I should've listened to you—"

"But Dad—"

"And then none of this would've ever happened."

And then, I saw my father do something he never did—cry.

The famous, badass hunter John Winchester had a few tears rolling down his cheeks. Without another word, I placed my hand on top of his and smiled at him, like Dean had told me that he used to do whenever Dad had returned from a bad hunt.

"S'okay, Dad." I told him.

He just held my hand and kept crying, muttering broken apologies.

Sometimes, I think about just walking out the door of whatever motel room is currently serving as home and never looking back. I mean, what kind of life is this? I don't want to die—I don't want to be forced to see my family members die. Yet, I stay because Dean and my dad are all I have. They need me and I just can't abandon them.

But sometimes, right before I fall asleep, I picture Mom the way I think she would look now and tell her about my problems. She always listens and grins before answering. When I tell her about how I died and came back, Mom just sighs before saying,

"You'll have to walk away eventually, Sam. It's the only way to get what you want."

A normal, safe life.

She's right—even though deep down, I know she's just a figment of my imagination—but just one glance at Dean as he sings loudly off-key as we drive in the Impala or Dad as he actually lets loose and watches a movie with us, stops me in my tracks.

I will walk away. If I want to get out, I'll have to do it.

I just don't know if I can bear walking away from them.

Author's Note: This turned into a bit of a Sam-angst piece, but still, I loved how it came out and I hope you did too! Tomorrow, please get ready for the Christmas prompts! And as always, please review and request!