Chapter Text
“I’m not a kid, you know; I could do something other than just back you guys up.” Sam Winchester rolled his eyes at his 19-year-old brother as the two of them hopped out of the black ‘67 Impala, rounding to the trunk in unison. Dean shook his head, amused and impatient, as he tossed the 15-year-old a shotgun loaded with rock salt.
“You may be almost as tall as me, Sammy, but you’re about as muscular as a twig.”
“It’s Sam ,” his little brother grumbled with half-hearted annoyance.
“Yeah, sure it is,” Dean laughed, pulling his brother into a headlock and ruffling his shaggy hair teasingly. Sam slugged him in the shoulder, the shotgun plopping back into the trunk’s arsenal of weaponry as the teens wrestled playfully.
“Alright, boys, sober up, we’re working.” An exasperated grin clear behind his voice, John Winchester’s calm baritone boomed out across the empty parking lot as the boys’ father leapt agilely from his truck, his own shotgun in hand. Both teens scrambled quickly to attention, having the good sense to look slightly embarrassed as they awaited instructions.
The three Winchesters fell easily into step as they entered the quiet graveyard, their lineup and positions second nature to the trio after years of practice. Sam broke off from the others a couple meters from the gravesite they were visiting, dropping into a crouch behind a large stone angel as his father and older brother started digging.
The Nebraska evening was warm and muggy, and Sam soon plopped out of his hunting stance to sit on the dying grass with a huff, pushing sweaty bangs out of his eyes. He watched with frustration as his family worked. They didn’t seem to trust him with anything important, and yet they weren’t willing to let him sit out of hunts to focus on his schoolwork, either.
By the time Dean was fifteen he had already been a highly trained and seasoned hunter, assisting their Dad with complicated and dangerous jobs, and yet Sam, at the same age, was relegated to backup. It just wasn’t fair; he knew he wasn’t as much of a natural as Dean was when it came to hunting, but Sam liked to think he could still hold his own, or at the very least be of some use in a simple salt and burn like this one.
He let out another exasperated sigh, leaning his head back against the monument, the gun falling into his lap as his gaze and attention wandered. His Dad and Dean had just hit the casket; if the spirit hadn’t shown up yet, chances were it wouldn’t make an appearance at all, and not for the first time Sam felt like a complete waste. Why did he even have to come on these stupid hunts if he was just going to sit there and not be part of the action?
“Sam! Damnit, Samuel!” His father’s voice snapped across the cemetery, pulling him from his thoughts. He whirled to face his family just in time to watch the spirit smack full force into his brother- the brother whose back he was supposed to be watching- sending Dean flying back a few feet and colliding with another gravestone with two solid cracks.
Sam snatched up the shotgun and took a shot, yelling wordlessly as he eyed his
brother, slumped unmoving on the grass. The rock salt bullet hit its mark (despite John’s frequent admonishments to the contrary, Sam was a damn good shot) and the spirit screeched, partially dissipating as it rounded on Sam. His instinct was to scramble back, to get away, but instead he launched himself up and forwards, shoulder rolling to his feet with the shotgun still trained on the spirit.
The dead man, however, approached faster than Sam could shoot, and before he could even focus his eyes the teen felt something cold and hard slam into his chest. He lost his footing as the impact threw him backwards, his back and side colliding painfully with the stone angel. He bit down hard on his tongue with the force of the impact and found himself spitting blood as he forced his body back up into a ready crouch. He loosed another shell from the shotgun as the spirit charged back in Dean’s direction (Dean who, as Sam was relieved to see, was stirring on the ground with a pained groan), the rifle kicking back hard into his bruised shoulder, and the spirit exploded into a cloud of smoke with an ear-splitting screech just as John dropped his lit match into the grave, flames licking greedily at the salt and gasoline which marinated the corpse.
As Dean pushed himself up into a sitting position, grimacing, Sam and John slid hurriedly into place beside him, both of their faces plastered with concern, and Sam’s with more than a little guilt.
“Dean, you okay?” Dean detected the slight, scared shake in his kid brother’s voice and forced a grin past the stabbing pain in his head and right arm.
“Yeah, kiddo, I’m just a little banged up.” John frowned at Dean’s answer and helped his older son to his feet, sending the younger one a sharp glance when Sam tried to assist.
“Sam, take everything back to the car, we’ll meet you there.” Sam’s gaze swept worriedly back and forth between his brother and father before he turned to obey, stumbling over legs that were too long since his latest growth spurt.
As he gathered up their supplies, he kept his focus on the conversation his family was having, cringing and stiffening at his father’s assessment of Dean’s injuries: concussion and a broken arm, grounds for a trip to the ER. And it was Sam’s fault, for failing to protect his brother. Dean had spent his entire life protecting Sam, had given up his childhood for him, and Sam couldn’t even return the favor on one easy hunt.
He shook himself, heading to the truck, wincing a little at the lingering pain in his side. He needed to stop wallowing in self-pity and focus on Dean right now.
All three Winchesters piled into John’s truck silently, tension thick between them; they’d come back for the Impala later. Sam shrunk down in the back seat, biting back a soft groan of pain that threatened to escape him; maybe he’d bruised his ribs or something. Either way, it didn’t matter; Dean was the one who was hurt enough to need the hospital, and that thought had Sam’s stomach clenching tightly, bile rising in his throat. He’d gotten his brother hurt, and all because his Dad was right; Sam wasn’t a good hunter, and one of these days his incompetence was going to get someone killed.
Sam and his Dad were in the waiting room for what felt like days as Dean got checked out for his injuries from his “bike accident”; for a long time, neither spoke a word, John pacing his frustrations out into the linoleum floors and Sam curled up in a worn green chair, knees pulled to his chest, eyes wide with fear and guilt.
For a while, John satisfied himself with shooting disappointed glares at his youngest, but then something in him snapped, and he was across the room in seconds, yanking Sam out of the chair by his biceps harshly despite the 15-year-old’s surprised yelp.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” John ground out, keeping his voice low as the others scattered throughout the waiting room glanced up with mild interest at the Winchester men. “You could have gotten your brother killed, Sam, and all because you had your head in the damn clouds again.”
“I’m sorry, I-”
“You what, Sam? What excuse do you have this time? The bottom line is, you’re stubborn, you’re not picking up your training fast enough, and we’ve obviously been far too soft on you. That’s over, you can count on it; as soon as we get out of this goddamn town-”
“Dad!” Dean’s voice rang out across the room, both Winchesters whirling to face him as he sauntered out of the ER doors with a cast and sling, a white-coated doctor trailing behind him, “It’s not his fault, lay off a little. None of us were expecting that to happen.”
“Dean!” Relief flowed through Sam at seeing his brother up and about on his own again, washing away a bit of the guilt at what had happened.
“Hey, Sammy.” Dean reached out with his good hand to ruffle Sam’s hair, but the older brother’s smile wasn’t quite as genuine as usual, and Sam’s guilt came rushing back. Of course Dean blamed Sam too; after all, if the 15-year-old had been watching his brother’s back like he was supposed to, Dean would be fine right now.
“Why don’t you boys head to the car? I’ll talk to the good doctor here and catch up in a minute.” John’s voice was gentle, but the boys knew him well enough to hear the underlying tone; that was an order, not a suggestion. Dean put an arm around Sam’s shoulders and steered him toward the sliding glass doors, mouth in a tight line of what could have been pain or anger; Sam was willing to bet it was some of both.