Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was the third time that day that the motel receptionist had tried to push through a phone call.

Dean was burning with a hangover, his whole soul sweating out with last night's beer and shots at the local dive bar. He was just glad he'd made it home last night – he was glad not to endure this in s strangers' bed.

The phone chimed out and Dean let out a breathe. He checked the clock on the night stand. 9:38am. Sammy wouldn't be home until school's out, and Dad was away on a hunting trip tracking a nest of vampires in Washington State. Dean had the beauty, the bliss, the Nirvana of a whole day and a whole place to himself…

The phone rang again.

"You've got to be kidding me," Dean groaned, stuffing his face into the pillow next to him. The phone was not going to give up.

Without sitting up, Dean reached over for the phone. "This better be good," he said through gritted teeth, the crackle alone making his head hurt.

"I'm forwarding a call for Richard Swindon from Cedar Falls Police Station. Please hold while I transfer."

Dean perked up at the use of the pseudonym, one reserved for Dad when one of the boys was in police trouble. They hadn't used it since Dean got caught getting cosy with one of his classmates in his senior year on the side of the road. So unless Dean had got into some other trouble last night…

The line went quiet and then another voice started to speak.

"Am I speaking to… Mr. Swindon, father of Daniel Swindon?"

Dean put on his best dad-voice. "Uh, this is he." He cringed at the crackle in his voice. God, he needed water.

The guy on the phone seemed unfazed. "Mr. Swindon, this is officer Deacon calling from Cedar Falls police station. I have your son in custody. I need you or another parent or guardian down at the station, so we can go through the charges in the presence of an adult. Do you understand?"

The voice sounded completely robotic and unfeeling, while Dean's day seemed to crumble before him. "Is – is he okay?" Dean stammered.

The voice sighed. "You are able to come down to the station sir and see for yourself. He's absolutely fine, however we need a responsible parent or guardian to be present while we read the charges."

Shit. Dean sat up in bed, scanning the room for any clothes that weren't covered in blood, dirt or beer. "Uh, I'm tied up with work. My eldest son, however can come down as Sa- uh, as Daniel's guardian –"

"Mr. Swindon, is your eldest son a legally recognised guardian of Daniel?" The monotone voice continued. Dean wanted to stab the guy's eye with a fork and he'd not even had the pleasure of meeting him yet.

"No. He's not –"

" – in which case, we will need to keep Daniel in custody overnight, or until we have the presence of a parent or legal guardian. Then we can read the charges and discuss bail and pending court date."

Dean froze. "Overnight? But he's a kid. You can't keep him overnight."

"Your son will be placed in a juvenile wing. When you return, we can discuss and sign the charges placed upon him. When will you be available to attend?"

Dean's heart raced in his chest, sweating more now. The situation seemed to deteriorate every question he asked. He was almost afraid to speak.

"Sir?"

"Sorry. I'll be able to attend tomorrow. I'm going to send my eldest down to station just now –"

"Daniel will be in transit this afternoon to booking –"

"No," urged Dean, "No. Just keep him at the station, okay? Keep him in holding just until I'm back in the state –"

"Sir, this is not something we can discuss further over the phone. Please get in touch when you are back in the county. Until then, Daniel will be safe in the custody of the state, in the juvenile wing of the correctional facility. Good day."

The phone line cut out, and Dean was left alone with the crackling white noise and his pounding heart.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dean rammed the Impala onto the sidewalk directly outside the police station. He kept his sunglasses on as he exited the car, the motion sickness catching up with him and the bright sunlight making him want to hurl even more. He death-glared at a passerby, an elderly lady who shook her head at his less than considerate parking.

He ran up the steps to the station, the heat beating down on his already sweating back. God, he was definitely still drunk. He hadn't dared shower, too worried in case he'd miss the transit to whichever shithole they planned to take his Sammy too.

He slinked into the building, the cool A/C an instant relief to his melting soul.

Dean singled up to the reception, careful to note where the security were standing in the building. He set his eyes on the youngest, prettiest receptionist, hoping he could either sweet talk his way into the back, or shit talk Sammy out to the front.

"Good morning sir," the pretty young thing smiled as he sidled up to her desk, "How can I help you today?"

She hadn't flinched at the sight of his hungover carcass, which was a good sign. She hadn't however swooned at the sight of him walking through the door. Dean made a mental note to change his shirt as soon as he got this mess dealt with. "Ma'am, my name is Richard Swindon, my brother Daniel is here. He's been arrested and I – I'm not really sure where to turn to for help."

Again, she didn't react to his blatant sweet talking attempt. "Let me fetch Officer Deacon."

Dean shook his head as she began to stand up from her desk chair. "No! No no no. There's no need to bother him just now, I just need to know…"

But she has leaped from her seat to go and correctly fulfill her duty.

Damn it.

Dean composed himself at the desk, picking at his teeth with his tongue. He suddenly remembered to take off his shades as officer Deacon appeared at the desk.

"Mr. Swindon?" He eyed Dean up and down, "are you the boy's… Father?"

"Me? God no. No no, I'm Richard Swindon Junior. Big brother," he held out a sweating hand, which Deacon took and fought not to recoil from the cool dampness of his palm. It was taking all of Deans concentration not to grab the man and headbutt him in the chin, hangover-headache and all.

"Well, Mr. Swindon. Without your father here, there's not a huge amount I can do for you. Daniel will be booked tonight at the county jail. Your father said he could be back early tomorrow, where once the charges are read and signed, Daniel can likely go on bail until his court date –"

"What did he do?" Dean asked, unable to keep at the pace of the information.

Dean knew fine well his dad wouldn't be home by the morning. They didn't even know where he was, how long he'd be, who he was with. The only thing he did know was that John would absolutely furious with him for letting Sam end up in a county jail. Overnight. Alone.

"I'll discuss these details with your father tomorrow. Daniel will be able to get in touch with you when he has booked at county via a phone call," Deacon droned on, and Dean made a soggy fist behind his back and grit his teeth together. "Your brother will be in transit this afternoon. As there is not space available at the Juvenile wing as we had hoped for, he will be in the general adult population –"

"Are you kidding me?" Dean could no longer control the anger that snarled through him. Deacon looked surprised, the only emotion he had shown during their entire conversation, but said nothing. "He's seventeen. How is he going to survive a night in a god damn adult jail? Have you seen him? Are we talking about the same kid?"

"Sir, I'm going to ask you to calm down. State law allows for juvenile offenders to be housed temporarily in adult prison if alternative accommodation is not available –"

Dean slammed his hand on the desk. "That's not good enough. He's a kid. He's never committed a crime in his life, he's getting sent under for... Well for something, and knowing Daniel, it's probably some stupid misdemeanor, and he's got to wait for my dad to –"

"Sir," Deacon said pointedly. Dean noticed the other officers in the room starting to pay attention to the conversation, "I suggest you move along and come back when your father is home. There is nothing more to be done today."

Dean considered his options; how many cops could he get through? How could he find Sam in this unfamiliar building? Why didn't he have a large arsenal of illegal and unexplainable weapons in his belt?

Then, from the corner of his eye, through the window Behind the reception desk, Dean caught sight of his tall, gangly, messy-haired kid.

He was in a line with three other men, all adults, all cuffed. They were leaving one room and headed to another. Sam was looking straight ahead of him, not making eye contact with anyone, or making any particular attempt to familiarise his surroundings. He was about to go into Sammy shut down mode. His hands were fists in his cuffs, his knuckles white. He wasn't even observing his co-criminals. The man standing behind him in the line smirked down at Sam's head, then leaned forward to say something in Sam's ear. Dean watched Sam stiffen, and his eyes glaze over.

Dean could read him like a book. Sam was scared.

The sight lit a fire in Dean's tequila scarred belly.

Never had Sam felt so close to Dean but out with his reach. Dean wanted to smash through the glass, clutch the boy in his arms and never let another person look at him again.

"Now, Mr. Swindon," Deacon gestured towards the front door of the building. Why is this prick still talking? "It's time for you to leave."

Dean clenched his jaw, trying desperately hard not to drive the officers face into the desk beside them. He couldn't even create a sentence that wouldn't land him arrested – he simply put on his sunglasses and walked back out the door. Dean's instincts tugged him back into the station, to be near Sam.

But he had to stop Sam going anywhere near a transit van.

Sam was not going to county.

Not over Deans dead body.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sam sat alone in the small, off-white cell.

He still hadn't quite had the opportunity to completely process what series of events had brought him to this moment, sitting in police custody, with the most overused fake name they had in their identity arsenal – thanks, Dean – Awaiting to go to an adult county jail. Alone.

Sam was not one usually to complain about solitude. Unlike his brother, he could go hours in silence, reading an old book or just sitting with his thoughts. He had confidence in his own space.

Now he was here. A locked box that it didn't look like Dean could get him out of.

God, he wanted Dean to bust through the door right now. Sam made a point of asking Dean for as little help as possible. At seventeen he felt mollycoddled by his elder brother, and gave Dean as few excuses to be… To be Dean.

He would give anything for Dean to charge into the room, eyes gleaming in rage, to take Sam away far, far from here. As far from the creepy guy behind him, who now sat the other side of the stained white wall, waiting for an opportunity…

Sam shuddered.

His dad was going to furious. Especially when he learned Sam was in custody over a stupid box of pencils.

Sam sank his head into his hands, shakily exhaling.

It had been so ridiculous.

Sam had been desperately searching for a pen, a pencil, hell a quill and ink, anything to write with at school that day. He has an Advanced History class where the teacher absolutely had it out for him, and told him not to return if he was unable to get the appropriate equipment for his lessons.

Sam had been completely humiliated in front of the entire class one too many times to make it bearable to go in again. He noted that none of his classmates had jumped in to offer him a pen. God forbid he asked his Dad, who would say, "Sam, where do you think the money for this shit comes from? Grab one from the next motel. If it's for school, don't bother and give it to me."

Sam didn't think that Dean had even owned a pen since the day he left school. He hated to ask Dean for anything more from Dean, knowing how much his brother sacrificed to make his life as comfortable as possible. He feel like he'd have to explain why he needed a pen, and why he hadn't asked before, and Dean would give him the look of perpetual dismay and failure, and spend all his spare cash on school equipment, for Sam to lose it in the next move, for dad to find out and get mad…

It had only been a box of pencils. Not even pens, with metal nibs, spring backs and lids. Pencils.

He'd been in the grocery store, eager to get out of the room since Dean had come back, stinking of tequila and cheap perfume. He didn't even think of it - he'd just slipped the box into his backpack and walked towards the door.

Sam had never stolen anything – directly, anyway – in his life. Sure Dean and his Dad were regularly scamming gamblers, fixing games, writing fake credit card applications, stealing in various ways but never even had they gone into a store and just taken something.

Sam never had a chance to process his action when he'd felt a firm hand on his shoulder.

And that was it.

The security guard had him cuffed in seconds. He'd hand to stand 20 humiliating minutes as his cohort walked to school, straight past the front door of the store as he awaited his blue light ride to the station.

The students stopped and stared, whispered as they went by, but not one of them reached out as they passed. They probably felt Sam was going where he belonged. The history teacher was right – he didn't deserve to be in school if he was unprepared for it.

God, he was kicking himself.

In a few hours time, he'd be in a cell, booked under a fake alias. His dad wouldn't be back for weeks, and Sam would be uneven to even reach a courtroom.

When Deacon had first arrived at the store, Sam was relieved at his calm manner at he whole situation. It seemed he was almost unbothered completely by the situation. Sam could hope for a slap on the wrist and a red-faced walk into school.

Deacon finished speaking to the security guard, and headed over to Sam. He stood a head taller even than the gangly teen. He had a plain, round face, clean shaven. His eyes were dark and empty. He was largely a forgettable man, apart from the words that next came from his mouth.

"I'm taking you to the station, kid. We're pressing criminal charges."

Deacon took the time to explain, in monotone, that the state was taking a harsh stance on juvenile crime. These crimes were being charged, taken to court and punished in accordance to state law.

Just Sam's damn luck.

He had begged to be able to call his dad, a Richard Swindon. He'd begged to call anyone who he thought would answer. Deacon was a stickler for the law, apparently, and refused Sam a phone call until his charges had been read and signed by his dad.

He had Delivered the news he would spend the night in county jail in the same monotone. "Due to the failure of your father to appear…"

Failure.

His dad had failed again. Had failed to show up when he was needed most. Had failed to give Sam the damn basics to go to school without becoming a social pariah. Sam swallowed his anger for his dad. Was he mad at Dean? Dean always showed up. Even when Sam didn't want him there. But where was he now? Why couldn't Sam hear him screaming down the door, causing a scene, threatening a fire, threatening everyone in here?

He couldn't blame Dean either. He couldn't blame anyone but his damn, stupid self.

Sam knew in himself he was masking his fear with anger. God, he was scared of going to county. Dean was a survivor in this kind of situation. He could read people, he could react quickly. He could sweet talk the right people and keep on the right side of the wrong people. Sam – Sam was an observer. He was quiet and deft, but he couldn't avoid conflict if his life depended on it. It sought him out. And the prison system was the last place you wanted to be caught observing, or being caught doing anything noticeable.

Christ, he couldn't even win a game of poker.

Sam fumbled with his thoughts, and imagined what the hell the guy behind him in the line meant when he said what he said…

In the distance of the police station, a ruckus had started to build. Outside Sam's tiny cell, officers and staff were running up and down the hallway, shouting, organising and for some reason, panicking.

Prisoners in the neighbouring cells started banging on the doors and walls, causing Sam to look up. He peeked as much as he could through the metal bars or his cell door, trying to see what was going on. Sirens filtered in from the outside, and what sounded like…. A helicopter..? Started outside.

Sam frowned.

Now what, thought Sam, were the chances of a huge, multi-officer event occurring, in the bustling town of Cedar Falls, on the exact same day as Sam was arrested?

The whole thing stank of Winchester.

As the hallway emptied out, Sam stood back from the door, his heart in his throat as he awaited the impossible. The roaring from the cells continued, and he strained his ears for a single voice among them.

And then….

"Sam?"

Sam's chest flooded as he heard the familiar voice.

"Sam? Which one are you in? Give me a clue, kid. Where are you?" From his voice alone, Sam could tell his brother was in focus mode. No messing.

"Here," Sam croaked, "I'm here, Dean."

Dean popped his face around the metal bars, dressed in a half convincing janitors outfit. He eyed Sam up and down. "Are you okay?" Dean was scanning not only for bumps and bruises, but for anything Sam couldn't tell him.

Sam nodded. He felt his tense body relax and start to shake as he processed his brother's presence. He'd been keeping his cool way too long today. He reached a shaking hand up to the bars of the cell.

Dean nodded in acknowledgement, and looking left and right, jacked open the door to the cell. The men either side in the cells were making enough noise to mask the sound, but Sam still winced. Dean gestured to get him out, and Sam hesitated none.

Dean led him down the hallway and through the second metal security gate, where a single officer was passed out on the floor, sporting a bloodied nose.

Together, they hurried through hallways, jumping in and out of doors as folk came hurrying past. Sam spotted his backpack on a cops desk, he assumed Deacon's. Sam wondered how long until Deacon went through it and found various names on various papers, and no sign of a Swindon on any of the books or name tags. Sam instinctually jumped into the office and grabbed his bag. He heard Dean grunt behind him.

Dean grabbed Sam by the wrist and dragged him through a fire door as Deacon went running by, finally looking a little flustered about something.

They fell out of the building, walking fast, but not fast enough to draw attention to themselves. Sam, spotting some cops walking in their direction, jumped into a short alleyway and stacked behind a commercial trash can as they passed.

Dean followed suit, and safe from the view of the street, started to strip off the janitors uniform.

"What the hell did you do, Sammy?" He hissed, keeping his eyes on the entrance to the alleyway. His heart was still pounding – from the break out, from being so close to losing Sammy – to cops – from seeing his boy in a cell, alone… God, he'd never get the image of the guy in the line behind Sam leaning in, breathing in Sam's ear, the boy's eyes glaze over…

Sam hesitated, looking up at his furious brother. His furious, relieved brother. "Can I tell you when I'm less embarrassed?"

Dean looked back at Sam now, taking in the whole picture of his brother. Safely at his side again, Sam was obviously shaken. By his day, by his crime, by the man standing behind him in the line – Sammy was not Sammy yet. He couldn't tell if Sam really was embarrassed of the whole situation, or if he doing his best to spare Dean's feelings.

Dean couldn't imagine what on earth his brother had done, but right now, he didn't even want to know if the whole situation could have been avoided had the older brother done something different.

Dean nodded, discarding the uniform into the trash can. He ruffled Sammy's hair, relieved to be within reach now they had him out of the tiny cell.

"I've parked just two blocks away. All our shit is packed. I called Bobby, he's expecting us in the next couple of days. We're going to camp out there for a few weeks until this dies down a little."

Sam nodded. Another helicopter flew overhead. Sam looked again at Dean, the burning question on his lips –

"Dean, what the hell did you do?!"

Dean himself hesitated, knowing the shit ton of trouble he was going to be in when his dad found out the scale of distraction – and destruction – he had caused to get Sammy back. He had needed the whole building empty and preoccupied to pull the shit he had pulled, and he had a short time to do it. Calling in a hostage situation – at every bank in the county – had been a huge headache, but was the only large scale problem he could think to cause without actually killing anyone. And he had come very, very close to doing that.

"I'll tell you when it's less embarrassing," Dean responded, and dragged Sam out of the alleyway and back into the street, through the gawking crowd. "Let's get outta here, Sam. God damn this shitty, hangover day."

As they walked coolly down the street, Dean's arm around his brother, the eldest could relish one stroke of genius that came from his definitely sober mind - stealing and parking Deacon's car at the scene of one of the many robberies he had called in. See how long Deacon lasts in gen pop.

Dean checked over his shoulder one more time as Sam ducked into the Impala, glad for once to see the back of a town they'd called home for a few weeks.

Dean bobbed in next to him, a wave of nausea washing over him again. Sam reached his glasses across the cab, and Dean took them, smiling. "Let's fuck off outta here, right Sam?"

The younger brother smirked, and sunk down into the deep bench seat. "You're God damn right." Has the Impala rolled into action, Sam said a quiet, "thanks, Dean."

"Anytime, squirt."

Chapter Text

Sam was quiet.

Well, Sam was always quiet. But Sam was especially quiet tonight.

The brothers drove through the rainy night in - mostly - comfortable silence, fat droplets of water rattling off the car windows.

They were on their way back from a diner, where Dean and their dad had spent most the evening in deep discussion about their current hunt. Sam had half listened, his attention caught by the thick yellow book in his hands.

It hadn't been the only thing distracting his kid brother.

Oh no, not at all. Dean had caught the sideways glances his brother shot the young waitress; how his ears and cheeks flushed whenever she walked by; and the rather humiliating stammer with which he had ordered his meal when she came to grab their check.

With all his strength, Dean had avoided chewing the kid out for this. A, because he wanted to rip him for it later, and B - he wanted to see if Sam would confide in him about the evening.

Sam was still up to his eyeballs in a book, although he hadn't turned a page since they'd been served their drinks.

Dean watched out the corner of his eye.

"Stop looking at me, Dean." Sam warned quietly.

"What are you reading, anyway?" Asked Dean, jumping at the opportunity to fill the silence. "Looks shit."

"It's Frankenstein," Sam huffed back, "I'm trying to get it finished before I have to return it. Before we move on again and I leave another town with a huge library fine…"

Dean sighed as quietly as he could. This was becoming a common gripe of Sam's. And who could blame him? The hunting life was difficult for adults - for a sixteen year old, having to be a completely new person every month was exhausting. Dean knew - he just didn't care as much.

"Ah Sammy," Dean muttered, but Sam had gone back - or pretended to go back - to his battered old book.

"Forget it," he muttered.

The car fell back into a numb silence, less comfortable this time.

Dean ruminated over how to pick up the conversation again, trying to choose all the right words, when Sam slammed the book shut and turned to face his brother. "I mean, how do you do it, Dean?"

Dean glanced at his brother, completely lost now. "Do what? Avoid library fines? Sounds like you got that covered, kiddo," he immediately regretted his words.

But Sam didn't acknowledge the joke. "How are you meant to keep friends, and stop yourself going crazy? How do you not get bored of me and Dad? How do you keep a girl interested -"

Sam stopped as quickly as he'd started, catching himself on his words. He turned to face the road again, and Dean could feel the heat of embarrassment fill the car.

"Sammy…" Dean started, cursing himself for being so shit with words.

"Sorry," Sam muttered, crossing his arms.

Dean knew he was not going to get this opportunity again, not in his lifetime. Wordlessly, he pulled the car over on the wooded roadside and killed the engine. Sam stayed silent.

Dean pulled the key and played with it in his hands, not wanting to fuse the conversation more than he already had. He fiddled with the keys in his hands, not looking at his kid.

"Sammy, is this about -"

Sam cut him off, now turned to face him completely. "How the hell are you meant to get girls?"

Dean said nothing. He had never heard his brother even acknowledge that the female species existed, even though they regularly faced with mystical and evil creatures.

"How are you meant to speak to them if you can't even stay long enough for them to remember your name? How are you meant to be nice to them, or give them cards or - or whatever, if you're just the weird kid that leaves school two weeks after starting?"

Dean gaped. He knew he was hardly a role model for long, happy, successful relationships. He personally enjoyed the more wayward lifestyle their line of work offered, except when they had to drive back through familiar towns…

Sam continued. "I just… I'm not like you, Dean. I can't, y'know, talk to girls. Just go up to one and… Talk." Sam looked searchingly at his big brother.

Dean took a deep breath. He had both expected to have this conversation sooner, while simultaneously hoping they'd never have to have it. But still, he thought to himself, better Dean than Dad.

"Sammy - Sam," he corrected himself, "let me be straight with you. Man to man."

The rain continued to dance on the roof of the car. "You're a good looking kid, okay? I know you don't think it, and you probably don't feel it. But trust me, you are. Girls look at you all the time. When we're at the grocery store, at diners," he paused to glance up at Sam's reaction, "they look your way."

Sam almost poured at this, already not believing his brother was taking him seriously.

"But at your age," Dean pressed on, "When you're sixteen, everyone thinks the same. All the boys, Hell, even all the girls think exactly the same way. They think they're all ugly, and shit at talking to whoever they like. They all think they're the biggest stain on the world.

"But some kids can just pretend better than other kids that they're hot shit. It's all a convincing game. So you're not bad at talking to girls. You're just… new to it. Newer than a lot of kids that you'll be at school with. The thing is, Sammy, a lot of these girls are not worth talking to. Trust me, I know."

Sam nodded, drinking in the advice.

Dean carried on. "We're in a pretty unique situation, with our lifestyle of choice. You're actually pretty lucky, Sammy, cause you're not stuck with the same school of 500 kids or whatever. You have the benefit of meeting so many, many girls - or boys - that you can actually spend your energy on the right one, not waste all your time with assholes. I've done that plenty, and it's really not worth your brain time. The other benefit of this is - you get to be, completely and a hundred percent, yourself. You don't have to change yourself at all. For anyone," Dean looked earnestly at Sam, desperate for this message to get through. "You will meet so many girls who love you precisely for your nerdy, weird, book-reading little self. And you won't have to change a thing about yourself for them. They're the girls worth waiting for, kiddo."

Sam nodded drunkenly, processing the advice. "But how do you talk to them? When you like one, I mean?"

Dean thought about it carefully. "I mean, I have a couple of one-liners that I could share…" Sam cringed. "But honestly Sammy sometimes you just have to be brave. Not singing in the hallway brave, but just say, 'hey'. Or ask if you can take them for a coke after school, or be partners with them at science class. Girls like it when you make the first move. With the right girl it will feel completely natural and you'll just… you'll just know.

"And if they say no, then you just say 'no worries', and you move on. It might be really embarrassing at the time," Sam ducked his head, still clearly reeling from his stammering at the waitress, "But they'll forget it, and you'll forget it. And even better, you'll move on to the next school, and you can keep learning."

Sam sat back in the car seat, looking ahead again. "What happens if I really like one?" He asked quietly.

Dean's heart sank in his chest. A difficult question that he would never have the answer to, cause the answer was to sacrifice everything the Winchester's had worked for over the last 16 years.

Dean knew one day they would both have to make that decision. Although, if it meant Sam's happiness, Dean was ready to make that decision sooner than he'd expected.

"Sammy, if you really think you meet the one before you're old enough to live yourself, I promise, we can make camp for a while and see if you can't figure that one out."

Sam looked across at his brother. The grateful look in his gaze filled Dean up and buoyed his heart back into his chest.

"Thanks, Dean," he said.

Dean started the car again, headlights gleaming through the drizzle, his heart soothed by Sam's returned calm. Damn, he was good. "Anytime, kid. But just so you know, that waitress, she was definitely not 'the one.'"

Sam snorted.

The Impala set off again into the night, one stormy heart less.

Chapter Text

Hi, folks 😊

This summer had dragged on like no other.

On paper, there was little to complain about.

Sam and Dean had found themselves placed – or, more likely abandoned – in a busy, beachside town on the California coastline. A sleepy surf-town in the low season, and packed with city visitors in the summer, it was every teenagers dream to find themselves there for a summer.

Dad had disappeared into the deep dark west, the occasional voicemail left on the shared cellphone, a cryptic text here or there, just to let them know he was still breathing.

Sam would have loved the situation they were in, had school not finished up for the summer. They had rented a small apartment – on the ground floor, much to Dean's apprehension – only a stone's throw from the pristine beach. The surf was up, and the boys had found themselves a couple of beat old boards to practice.

The days were long and hot, the Pacific breeze providing only brief relief from the strong sunlight.

Dean had taken it upon himself to find them local hunts, locations that their scrappy Subaru Justy could get them reliably, though the longer the car struggled on, the smaller this radius became.

When the papers went quiet, he spent his days sleeping in, and his nights hustling poker the next town over, and when that town turned on him, the next town over, and the next…

Sam raided the local library, completed War and Peace, helped Dean fix the car, joined beach soccer with the local kids, and took up odd jobs like pulling weeds, or cleaning rooms in hotels, to contribute to the rent.

But, as much he hated to admit… He felt that he was getting pretty… bored.

The nights were especially dull, when Dean disappeared after dinner to his next bar. Sam would clean up and spend hours in front of the TV, falling asleep to the soundtrack of late-night talk shows, salt still in his hair.

He could never talk about this to Dean, who would laugh and call him a hypocrite – This is what you always talk about, Sam, he could hear him saying already, This is domestic life!

He just needed something to keep him busy.

Luck seemed to be on his side when, as he walked along the beachfront one afternoon, an eye out for 'home help' flyers or a pick-up game of soccer, a sign had appeared in the window of one of the busy bars.

Wanted

Glass collector. Job is as described. $5 an hour, cash plus tips. 2000-0200, Weds-Sun. No experience necessary.

Sam read the sign over again.

Sure, it wasn't great money, and donkey work wasn't famous for having great tips.

But it would definitely help keep them afloat, pay the rent, maybe Sam could buy his own surfboard –

He stepped into the bar, the cool of the A/C sending a shiver down his spine. The décor was dark inside, the ceilings lowered by decorative surf equipment and old fishing gear. Two marked pool tables sat in the back corner with high tables arranged around it. Huge glass doors led to an outdoor decking, overlooking the bay. The place looked tired but well used.

A brunette woman, arms covered in tattoos, looked up as he walked in. "We open again at five," she called over, polishing glasses.

"I'm here about the job," Sam smiled back, wondering whether to go for his puppy-dog look, or to try and look as old and useful as possible.

"The glass collector?"

"Yeah, are you guys still looking?"

"Sure. First shift is a trial, tips only. Then we'll see how you get on. If it's quiet, you leave early – if it's busy, you stay late. Got it?" She looked him up and down over the height of the bar. "You got jeans?"

Sam looked down at his grimy board shorts. He didn't, actually, his last pair having been completely bloodstained by their last hunt of a rather angry poltergeist. "Uh, yeah."

"Great. Blue jeans, black shirt. No drinking on the job," She smirked, knowing fine well he wasn't legal to drink just from his frame. "It gets a little rowdy here later on, so just… Be prepared for that. See you at seven-fifty, tonight."

"Thanks."

Sam turned to leave back on to the seafront before she could take back the offer, grinning ear to ear.

And just like that, he had a summer job.

…

Sam fluttered between telling Dean the truth, or not telling him at all.

He knew his brother would have an opinion of some sort. He would either tell him there was absolutely no way Sammy was working at a bar, especially not during the height of the summer season, or he would sit at a table every night and torture him relentlessly, flirt with his co-workers, and undoubtedly get him fired.

"You have a date? But you don't like dates," Dean said, incredulously, as Sam buckled his older brother's new jeans tight with a belt. "With who?"

The concept of Dean's misbehaviour at his new workplace had been enough to convince Sam to lie.

"Noone, just a girl I met at the beach."

"Well, what's her name?"

Sam hesitated. "Joanna."

"I ain't ever heard you mention a Joanna before."

"She just got here. Her family come here on holiday from the city."

Sam couldn't look his brother in the eye as he got himself ready, throwing on a black cotton tee.

Dean followed him with his gaze. "Joanna from the city," he murmured.

"What's the big deal?" Sam grazed, pulling at his hair with his hands, "You go on dates."

"Yeah, and you've never been on a date in your life."

"Well, today's the day," Sam sat opposite his brother at the kitchen table, feigning matter-of-fact confidence, but still avoiding eye contact.

Sam could feel Dean's eyes burning through him, and his cheeks flushed red. God, he was such a bad liar.

Dean crossed his arms. "Time you be home?"

"Before you," Sam shot back, meeting his brother's gaze.

They locked eyes for a second, a mental game of chicken at play. Then Dean relinquished, leaning back. "Okay. Your seventeen, I guess. Be safe, use protection –"

Sam groaned, and immediately stood up to leave. "I'll catch you later."

"If you can't be safe, be careful –"

"Shut it, Dean,"

"And say hi to Lisa for me!"

Sam lurched for the door. "Joanna," he said, not looking back as he made a swift exit.

"Sure it is."

…

Sam had a whole new respect for service staff.

The bar was completely packed, a distinct difference to when Sam had been in earlier that afternoon.

There were several bar staff, including the tattooed woman Sam had met earlier. There was not a second of reprieve for any of them, as the line at bar remained 3 bodies deep throughout the night.

It was definitely a mix of clientele. Visitors, locals from other towns, couples on dates, a group of cyclists on a trip, surfers – Sam seemed to have found himself at the social hub of the county.

The work was absolutely exhausting.

Sam hadn't sat down, or had a drink of water since his shift had started. Between wrestling his way around the floor; middle-aged women demanding his attention, plucking at his cheeks; others trying to sneak in an order with him; and seeking very specific glasses, for very specific cocktails, Sam found himself thinking wistfully about his long evenings at home, collapsed on the couch –

"Hey, kid," shouted one of the bar staff. "Kid. We need more of these," he held up a tall, thin glass. "Pronto!"

Sam nodded, not bothering to shout above the music.

Despite the business and the chaos of the bar, Sam enjoyed the pace, and soon learned to identify the individuals who looked like they might be tippers. He hadn't expected the tips to be as good as they were, but slowly, the front pocket of his apron – yes, his apron – was started to fill with small bills, which made up for the free trial shift he'd agreed to.

They couldn't keep up with the demand for glassware. He was constantly being hounded at for beer glasses, cocktail glasses, shot glasses. Sam had very quickly learned to carry four, even five glasses in each hand, how to slip between drunken bodies, to lead with his elbows. Loud music pounded, the bass crackling the speakers. This rendered Some people would make way when they saw his full hands, but mostly just found himself battling through.

"You think this is bad?" The tattooed woman smiled as he wiped sweat from his brow, "Wait 'til Friday night!"

She wasn't wrong about how rowdy the night got, either. A fight broke out, and a pool cue was broken by one guy across the back of another.

Couples slipped out the back door where the bins were and came back in disheveled, alongside kids Sam's age who re-emerged louder, cockier, rubbing their noses.

Security would occasionally storm in and remove a troublemaker, who either screamed in protest or silently accepted their fate.

God, how does Dean cope with this night on night?

As the night went on, the line at the bar petered out, and Sam could move a little easier through the building.

Finally, the tattooed woman – who, Sam realised, hadn't introduced herself yet – found him on the floor. "Hey kid, find a seat at the bar and take five. Tell Steven that I said you could have a coke. You've done a great job," she slapped him on the back, harder than Sam had expected.

He was relieved to get off his feet. They throbbed in his shoes, and he could only imagine what state they would be in tomorrow.

He was hunched over his drink, trying to slyly count the contents of his apron pocket, when he felt a body slide in the seat beside him.

Sam didn't look up, but the smell of thick perfume made his nose twitch.

"Hey cutie," purred the woman next to him.

Sam looked up, blinking. She must have been Dean's age, tight black curls framing her face, a direct contrast to her shocking pink lipstick. "Hey," he said back politely.

"You forget about our date?" She pouted, a half-smile appearing.

Sam frowned. He was absolutely certain he had never seen this woman in his life. And he certainly hadn't arranged a date with anyone…

The pieces started to fit together for the boy. He looked at the woman, a wicked flash crossing her face. "It's me, Joanna!" she squeaked, her eyes faltering across the bar.

He started to look around the floor.

Sam heard his brother before he saw him.

Dean was sitting tucked away in the corner, behind the crowded pool tables. He had a violently purple drink in front of him, alongside several empty glasses of various shapes and sizes. He cackled loudly, eyes shining with mischief.

"Found you, Sammy," he called across the room.

Sam cringed, ignoring the girl as she ran back across the bar towards his brother. He refused to move, and looked down in embarrassment as his brother welcomed back the decoy Joanna.

He stared into his coke, trying to ignore his brother calling his name across the bar. He was pretty drunk, Sam could tell from the way he swayed in his seat. How long had he been there? Had Dean followed him from the apartment, and sat drinking his whole shift?

"Hey come on, Sammy, come and show me your new skirt," Dean hollered.

"It's an apron," Sam growled to himself. Steven looked up at him.

"You know that guy?" he asked, "You want security to throw him out?"

Sam considered this, the image of Dean escorted onto the street made him snort. That would make a great show... He shook his head. "Nah. It's just my big brother."

Steven nodded in understanding. "I got one of those," he sympathised, "Pain in my ass too."

Sam smiled, pushed his empty glass across the bar and got back to his work.

Dean quieted down eventually, and Sam got an opportunity to actually speak to some of his coworkers now the bar had emptied a little. The staff gathered at one end of the bar as the night drew to a close.

Tattoo lady finally introduced herself as May. "So Sam, will you be back tomorrow night?"

Steven laughed. "Don't leave us! We've already gone through three of your role this summer, kid. Can't seem to keep 'em."

"Probably 'cause of the crappy wage," May threw in, looking apologetically at Sam. "Sorry about that, Sam. Owner is kind of a dick, but he leaves us to it most of the time. We'll pay you for today though. You did a great job on a busy shift, and we appreciate it."

Sam grinned, blushing slightly at the compliment. "Thanks. I'm definitely coming back."

"Thank God," said Steven dramatically. "I hate collecting."

Sam's heart was completely full. Despite all these guys having at least five years on him, he felt completely at home in their company. It felt so different to school, with cliques and popular kids, the requirement to have a label attached to your personality as soon as you walked through the door. The staff were as eclectic as the patrons at the bar, a mix of backgrounds and stories. They offered him a beer, hidden in a solo cup, which he accepted. He occasionally glanced up at his brother, who was now engaged in a very serious game of cards with a long-haired dude, dressed completely in leather - including a leather sailor's cap.

May looked at her watch. "Shoot, Sam. Get yourself home. We'll see you tomorrow night," she pulled thirty bucks out of the register and handed it over the bar.

Sam added the sum to his fat roll of bills. He thanked them all as he headed for the door.

"Don't forget that apron tomorrow," called Steven, "Or she'll dock it from your pay!"

"I'll even wash it," he chirped back.

"That'll be a first," he heard one of them say as he left the building.

The night was warm, the gentle breeze fresh compared to the A/C in the bar. Sam pulled off his apron, mentally calculating his final pay for the night.

"Sixty-four bucks," he mumbled to himself, the thought quickening his stride. Nothing on what Dean could make in a night, but more than Sam had ever held in his hands.

And it was his.

Sam felt a surge of… Of pride, of independence, as he navigated the main street, as hollering men and screaming women laughed their way from one bar to the next. He'd made it all himself. It didn't matter that he couldn't spend it. He'd struggled to contribute to the pot all summer, and finally – finally – he had real money, and a real prospect for more of it, to help out.

"Sammy!"

He heard the shout from behind him, and cringed a little. He didn't know if Dean would be pissed or just thrilled to have caught Sam out in the act. He slowed his stride but didn't look around.

"Sammy, wait up!"

An arm clambered around his shoulders, another around his chest. He nearly stumbled under the weight of his brother, who had definitely had a few too many. "Get off me, Dean," he mumbled.

Dean laughed. "Sorry it's not Joanna all over you, kiddo." He patted Sam on the chest and moved to walked alongside him. "I didn't see you leave."

"You were busy," Sam said, too embarrassed to look Dean in the eye. The previous surge of independence had disappeared, now feeling slightly guilty that he had lied to his brother.

Dean, however, was in a great mood. "Knew you didn't have that date," he said triumphantly.

"Knew you'd steal Joanna from me if you both met," Sam threw back, grinning.

Dean laughed. "You're welcome to her, man. I even got you her number." He waved a napkin at him, a big loopy scrawl all over it and a heart drawn on with the bright pink lipstick.

Sam snorted. "I don't think she meant that for me."

Dean crumpled it back into his pocket, and looked at Sam. "So? How much did you make?"

Sam beamed up at him. "Sixty bucks. Thirty was tips!" He couldn't stop the childish excitement from threading through his voice.

"Jesus, not bad at all! Maybe I should get a job there too. I'm kidding," Dean added, slapping the response out of Sam's mouth with a smack on the back.

"You're not mad, then?" Sam asked quietly, as they turned onto their street.

Dean thought about it. "I was mad, when you lied to my face." He looked pointedly at his brother, eyes deathly for a second. Sam ducked his head. "And I was mad when it took me that long to find you. You're way too good at shaking a tail. And I was sober. Freakin' lost you in the first 10 minutes," Dean admitted.

"But now, you're not mad now?"

"No, Sammy, I'm not mad. I'm really fuckin' proud of you."

Sam had not expected that response, nor the surge of joy that rose up through him.

"And you looked so happy. I mean, there are places I'd rather you worked, you know, not a dive bar full of fights, gambling, drugs, and general chaos," Dean continued, "But hey. This is your summer. You wanna work, you can work. You're seventeen. You're old enough to make your own decisions, and judgements of bars. Although, you made a poor judgement of this one. I thought the guy playing cards was going to stab me under the table if I won."

Sam laughed. "Maybe I should get you barred from it, keep you out of trouble."

"No chance. Not with that staff discount you'll be getting, cheapest beer on the street."

Sam grinned, punching his brother in the arm. "Just don't get me fired, and don't start any fights. And, please, don't start any hustling in there. I don't want my arm broken again just 'cause you're getting –"

"Let's not talk about that old chestnut, please," said Dean, scrubbing Sam's floppy, sweaty fringe with his hand. "Oh man, you need a shower. You crack on, kid. You got a busy week of work. I'll get your laundry."

Sam smiled gratefully, the tiredness hitting him as they approached their apartment. "Thanks Dean. And thanks for hanging out tonight."

"I'll be there every night to walk home with you," he said, and turned his brother by the arm to look at him. "I promise. So don't try and sneak out again to look cool in front of your new friends."

As much as Sam resented the tip verging towards coddling, he nodded, knowing that would be the only condition Dean would have. "Okay."

"Great. Oh and Sam? Tomorrow, we're taking that sixty bucks and buying you some new jeans. I need mine back."

Chapter Text

It was when the spirit sent a solid oak table straight at his dinner that Sam felt the air leave his lungs.

His back slammed into the kitchen wall, his head taking the rebound from the sudden impact and whipping back for good measure.

The gaped like a fish, trying to remember how to take in air, how to breathe, while the table continued to crush him.

“Sam!” He heard in the periphery of his hearing. He couldn’t respond. He couldn’t breathe.

It felt like all his air was still being pushed out of his body, like his diaphragm had forgotten how to expand, like his abs we’re doing their utmost to squeeze everything out up the way.

He vomited as the pressure from the table became more intense, and he wondered how long before his ribs would crack.

The spirit continued to launch objects around the room, mostly at Sam’s head.

Black spots danced in his vision. He could hear Dean scrambling around the house, swearing and crashing through the rooms.

Sam pushed feebly at the table, but in response the spirit pushed back harder, and Sam doubled over practically lying in his own vomit as he continued to grasp at air.

Because he Still. Couldn’t. Breathe.

He was about to let go to the darkness, could already feel the tingling in his peripheries as he gave into unconsciousness, when the table suddenly gave way.

Sam crumpled to the ground, his body still trying to remember how to breathe.

“Sam!” He heard Dean again, heavy boots pounding towards the kitchen.

Sam knew how pathetic he looked - curled in the foetal position, in a pool of half-digested soup and soda, his own life in his hands and the solution to saving it right there - but still no air could enter his lungs.

He felt Dean before he saw him, felt the ground shudder as he threw the shotgun across the ground and fell to his knees.

Deans hands grabbed at Sam’s shirt, shaking him desperately. “Sam. Sammy. Kiddo, talk to me. Are you hurt?”

Sam turned his head slightly to look up at his brother, who crouched over him, amulet swinging like a metronome. Sam tried to follow the rhythm with his breathing, but his body just couldn’t figure it out.

Which was a shame, cause he felt like he was dying.

“You’re okay, Sammy. Just relax. I got the son of a bitch,” Dean soothed, placing one hand on Sam’s back and the other under his head, amid the vomit. He didn’t even flinch. “You just got a little winded, you’re okay. Just try to breathe.”

Sam wanted to laugh at that - what did Dean think he’d been doing this whole damn time? - but that would require air, which Sam was currently struggling to obtain.

“It’s okay, Sam. Breathe with me, okay? Please, breathe with me.” Dean rubbed Sam’s back gently, and moved his hand up to the back of his neck, gently rubbing his thumb over the nape. Sam could feel his brother moving closer, closing the space around them, making it smaller and safer.

Dean’s eyes were desperate, Sam noticed, as they levelled with his in the puddle of sick. His big brother had a habit of that - looking all big and macho, wide as a doorway, but he’d always give away how he was feeling with his eyes.

And Dean was shitting his pants right now.

Sam tightened his hands into fists, and concentrated hard on his brother’s pained face -

As if he’d come back from the dead, Sam drew in a rasping, painful lungful of air.

Dean breathed with him, relaxing with relief. “‘Atta boy, Sammy. Take your time. Just keep doing that.”

Sam’s ears were pounding, his vision dancing with flashing lights. But he could breathe. He could breathe.

It hurt like hell, the stretching of his diaphragm lighting flames of pain around his stomach. But it felt so good to fill his lungs, to establish the rhythm of life again.

“Dean,” he croaked, pawing aimlessly at his brother’s arm above him. “You - did you get him?”

“You bet I fucking got him. His ass going straight back to Hell,” Sam felt Dean’s free hand triaging for any other injuries, spending a moment at the back of his head where he’d slapped the wall. Sam breathed - yes, breathed - through the prodding and poking, trying to quiet the coursing adrenaline through his system.

He focussed on his brother’s face, brow furrowed and lips tight. Blood trickled down his neck, and Sam’s stomach lurched - shit, how bad was it?

He went to sit up, the engagement of his core aggravating the throbbing pain at his stomach. Sam reached up to the wound on his brother’s neck. Dean swerved the limb and kept him firmly down on the ground. “It’s nothing. The fucker threw a vase at me and didn’t miss. Just a scratch.”

Sam tried to unfurl himself from his position, feeling the blood pounding through his limbs. His fingertips were blue. “You got my spew on your hand,” Sam breathed - God, he could breathe - and shut his eyes.

“Ain’t the first time. Just relax, Sammy, take your time. We got all the time now. No rush.”

The words were calm, reassuring. Sam wasn’t sure who they were spoken to serve, but he felt it working.

He took several, juddering inhalations, assured his body had remembered what to do. “Just a little winded.”

“Christ, I thought you’d punctured a lung for a second there, kid,” Dean shook his head.

Sam didn’t respond. His heart was pounding now, and he pictured the oxygenated red blood cells rocketing through his veins.

“Okay,” he said, I’m ready to get up.”

“You need another minute?”

“No. No I’m good. You’re still bleeding… I wanna get out of here.”

“Yes sir. You’re covered in spew, kid, you know that? You stink, and so does my hand - and shit, it’s on my jeans -“

Sam ignored his brother as he got to his feet, shakily. He looked sideways at the table that had pinned him, and felt a shooting pain in his stomach.

Reflexively, he ghosted a hand over the site. Dean watched him, and immediately pulled at his shirt.

Sam did nothing to stop him, and Dean swore again as he eyed the damage. “Dammit, kid,” he said softly, and dropped the shirt, “Few days off school for you, okay?”

Sam didn’t have the energy to respond.

He just wanted to get out of here, into the air, and to breathe.

—————————————————————

Several weeks passed.

The brothers stayed holed up in the same motel, waiting patiently for their dad to return from a particularly complex case across the state border.

They had completed several hunts, mostly on weekends - New England has more than their fair share of ghosts - and Sam was grateful to finish the Christmas semester of senior year at the high school.

Neither brother thought much of that hunt in particular, the one where Sam got a little winded. It paled in comparison to some of the exploits of other hunts, with a distinct lack of blood, gore or trauma. Sure, he had a mild concussion, and a huge crowd of bruises around his abdomen that soon faded. Dean’s injury had been more dramatic, and they’d had to source some antibiotics to attack the infection that came along with the stitches. When their dad called, they hadn’t even bothered to report their damage. The hunt was safely tucked away in the growing file of straightforward hunts.

Sam had taken a couple of days off school, but quickly returned to his classes and a new passion he had developed - rugby.

Dean found the whole thing rather hilarious.

Watching his brother run around a muddy, wet field, in tiny short while having to grab the asses of his teammates. Could it get any more erotic?

“We don’t grab ass, Dean,” Sam would huff, “It’s called a scrum.”

“Call it what you like, Sammy, don’t be ashamed… Just glad you can finally be yourself,” Dean would grin, and expertly dodge the kick in the back of the knee coming his way.

But with all his training with the team, Sam was becoming fast on his feet, and strong. He was quickly filling out his lanky frame with lean muscle.
And, Dean thought, the weirdest part was how social his brother was becoming. He went to training with the rugby team, hung out after school, spent hours in the gym, and participated in as many games as he could.

It was great to see his kid brother come out of his shell, make friends… And grab tighty whitey ass on the field.

Dean secretly loved attending the matches too. As much as he loved to holler at his brother from the stands, he also just loved the atmosphere. He had no fucking idea what was happening on the field, but as long as he cheered when everyone else cheered, he couldn’t really go wrong, right?

“Get ‘um, Sammy!” He shouted, beaming as his brother tackled a player to the ground. As far as he could tell, rugby was like hardcore football. Less safety gear, more… Well, more hitting? “Take ‘um out!”

“That your boy?” His neighbour asked, gesturing at Sam.

“My kid brother,” Dean said proudly, as Sam launched the ball backwards - why always backwards in this game? - to a teammate.

“He’s a good player. Team are lucky to have him.”

Dean grinned. Hell yeah, they were lucky to have him.

Sam rolled up off the ground, completely covered in mud - he’s doing the laundry, thought Dean - and called for the ball. He was running as he caught it, his huge frame launching for the - well, the touchdown?

“You got this, kid!” Dean couldn’t control the grin on his face, his voice hoarse as Sam sailed towards the end of the field.

The grin was quickly dashed as an opposing player barrelled into him from the side, his shoulder meeting Sam’s stomach, and they both went rolling into the ground.

Dean’s face dropped and he stared at his brother, frozen.

The crowd hissed in response, muttering between them.

“That was a low Fucking blow,” the guy next to Dean murmured.

Dean watched as Sam stayed prone on the ground. He instinctively looked for movement, for any twitching of injured limbs, the rise and fall of his chest -

Sam wasn’t breathing.

Sam had brought his knees up, his head between his elbows and still on the ground.

Dean dropped his plastic cup of beer, oblivious as it soaked his boots.

The player who had taken his kid brother out was up on his feet, bent double beside his victim, clapping Sam on the back.

But Sam didn’t move.

Dean was down the steps of the stands, pushing past the staff that tried to keep him off the field.

“Get the fuck off me,” he growled as a referee tried to force him back into the crowd. “That’s my brother - I said, get off!”

He was running now towards Sam, eyes locked on the unmoving body. He was surrounded by teammates, who were yelling at their opponents.

“That was uncalled for!”

“You’ll get banned from the league for that -“

“You trying to break his ribs?”

The first aider was already there, and Dean flinched as the woman went to place her hand on the back of Sam’s neck.

He could see Sam tense at the touch.

Dean sprinted now, heart pounding.

He fell to his knees beside his brother, into the squelching muck of the field.

He ducked his head under Sam’s awkward position, craning his neck, trying to catch his eye.

The situation was all too familiar.

His brother; mouth locked open; chest juddering uselessly as he tried to get air into empty lungs.

He looked panicked and pale, his eyes screwed shut.

“Sammy,” Dean muttered, “Sam, listen to me.”

The noise was growing around them as players, coaches, and referees argued between them. Dean shuffled closer to Sam, their cheeks almost touching. “You’re okay Sammy. You’re just a little winded.”

The words met no reaction, only Sam’s heaving torso trembling as it struggled for air.

Dean reached a hand out to Sam’s forearm, squeezing it, willing his brother to acknowledge his words.
Sam shook. Dean hadn’t seen anything like it before, it hadn’t been this intense the last time. He trembled like the ground beneath him was moving. His hands were tight in fists, then clawing at the grass and muck, and then fists again.

Dean almost willed his brother to pass out, to let his body figure out the breathing part while his brain couldn’t. How long could the kid go without breathing in?

Sam juddered violently now, as if he was choking. Dean placed a quick hand on his back, rubbing hard circles with his palm.

“Come on, kid,” he said, the panic rising again in his chest. Was it this long last time? Had it been a harder blow than it looked?

Dean jumped as Sam let out a violent cough, and felt relief flood through his veins as the kid took in a short, sharp breath - and then another - and then another.
“That’s it, Sammy. Now, let it out - that’s right,” Dean searched again for eye contact with his brother, and slapped away the hand of the first aider as she went to touch the kid’s face. “Another couple of those.”

They stayed, kneeling on the field as Sam filled his lungs in short bursts. He was shivering now, seemingly unaware of the chaos building around them. Voices were still raised, and viewers from the bleachers were calling for justice -

“Just breathe, take it easy,” Dean mumbled, trying to focus his own breathing into slow and reassuring sighs. He could feel Sam’s heart pounding under his hand.

“We need a stretcher -“ the first aider started.

“No,” Sam rasped, and Dean tightened the hold he had on his brother’s forearm, “I can get up.”

“We need to check -“

Dean glared at the first aider from underneath his brother’s chest. “He said he can walk.”

The first aider took the hint - fucking finally - and stood up, attending the player who had knocked Sam over in the first place.

“Okay, kiddo. Let’s get you up.”

Dean helped Sam up onto his hands, then up into a crouch. The people around them were ignoring them now, enveloped in the drama of the kangaroo court playing out.

“You good?” Dean asked.

Sam nodded, but leaned back heavily into Dean as they rose together. He was cold to touch, his skin covered in a layer of thick, freezing mud.

Sam didn’t look up as they headed across the field. His teammates were yelling at the ref, the ref at the coaches, the coaches at each other. Dean shot Sam’s attacker a murderous glare, and assigned the shirt name and number to memory.

Sam was still trembling - and nonverbal - as they walked across the field to the bench. Dean still had a tight grip on his forearm, and a hand on his back. Sam stumbled.

“Jesus, Sammy, how hard d’he hit you?” Dean asked, his tone harsher than he wanted it to be.

Sam shook his head, and reached out for Dean’s shoulder. Dean buckled under the sudden weight and moved his arm to support the mass of his brother.

“Dean,” Sam called out, like a lost cat.

“Hey, I’m here, bud,” Dean reassured, but his big-brother sense was tingling. Something wasn’t right. “Sammy, open your eyes and look at me. I’m right here.”

But Sam just stumbled on, flailing almost in the grip of his brother.

Dean held tighter and finally dragged him to the bench, dumping his brother onto a seat and crouching next to him. “Sam, what’s wrong with you? What’s happening?”

Sam shook his head, his eyes open now, staring, but seeing nothing. He still had a hand on Dean’s shoulder, but the grip was weak. Dean clapped a hand on top of his brother’s and squeezed it.

“Dean,” Sam whispered, still pale and listless.

Dean searched the muddy face in front of him for an explanation.

“I can’t breathe.”

———————————————————————

Sam had seen his attacker from the corner of his eye, but the expectation of the blow didn’t seem to take the edge off it.

Hard shoulder met soft abdomen, and they tumbled in a tangled mess across the field, the ball landing yards away from sprawled limbs.

Sam felt his body lock immediately, and a dark sense of dread filled him as he, once again -

Couldn’t breathe.

His heart battered against his chest and he could feel the blood pounding in his ears, begging him to take in oxygen. He could barely hear his brother’s voice over the pummelling racket inside his own body – he shook and trembled in Dean’s grasp.

He pulled desperately at the air right in front of him to no avail. His teeth crashed together as his mechanical reflexes to breathe tried – and failed – to draw it in.

“Sammy, you gotta try relax,” Dean was repeating, over and over. He had a tight grip on Sam’s biceps – Sam could barely feel it for the tingling numbness in his limbs.

His vision tunnelled. He tried to ground himself, but the inescapable feeling of impending threat and terror had him strung high.

Dean changed tactic, and Sam felt a calloused palm at his cheek. He drew up his own quivering hand to meet it, matching the grip. “Sam, you’re having a panic attack, okay? You’re going to be okay. Stay with me, kid.”

A panic attack? Winchesters didn’t have panic attacks. In fact, Winchesters showed absolutely no weakness, whatsoever, at any point, unless there was blood-soaked evidence to prove damage had been done. What kind of pansy-ass bullshit was a panic attack?

This was a panic attack. Sam couldn’t breathe, and he was going to die. He clawed at his throat with his free hand, batting away his brother’s reactive block to stop him.

“Quit that, Sam. You’re okay. You’re safe. We’re gonna get you through this, you hear me?”

Well, that was total bullshit. Sam knew this was it. His chest was tight, like the table was forced against him all over again, and his heart was either about to burst through his chest or stop completely.

He’d take either if it meant this horrible, crushing, terror would end.

An additional body started to float around Sam’s peripheral vision. He felt Dean tense in front of him, then try to immediately quell the reaction. The person hung around, and Sam felt a strange hand start to rub between his shoulders.

The terror grew. Was it this person, this new, unknown person who was going to be the one to kill Sam?

He gagged at the touch and leaned closer to his brother.

“I’ve got this,” he heard Dean glower, and close the gap between the siblings. The touch on his back disappeared. To Sam, Dean said quietly, “I’m not going anywhere. Nothing is going to happen to you.”

Sam nodded.

It felt like hours passed by.

Dean continued to mumble kind, reassuring words to his kid brother, which kept Sam’s mind from reaching the limits of his own adrenaline-fuelled panic. He focussed on Dean’s familiar voice, gripping it like a life raft.

Rain started battering from the black sky, the game continued around them, without Sam. He concentrated on the feeling of cold on his bare legs, the waves of voices calling out to each other as the game continued without him.

But most of all, he tried desperately to find himself in Dean’s voice.

Slowly – painfully slowly – he sucked air into his burning lungs. It felt like a stream of cold water soothing burned skin. The relief relaxed his muscles, soothed the tension he didn’t realise he was holding through his body. His legs quivered.

Dean’s hands were on Sam’s face. He didn’t force Sam to meet his gaze, and Sam was grateful. He couldn’t face that yet. He just wanted to feel the ecstasy of breathing for a minute more, to reassure his body that he could do it – that he could breathe.

“You with me, Sammy?” Dean mumbled, running a thumb across Sam’s cheekbone.

Sam kept his eyes closed and nodded. He suddenly felt the cold, the drying mud clinging to his skin. “I’m okay.”

Dean seemed to melt before him, the stiffness leaving his own shoulders. He kept up his game face. “Glad to hear it, bitch.”

Sam ignored the jab, and filled his lungs again.

Dean moved to sit beside him, and the warm presence was welcome as he shivered involuntarily. “I guess the table-to-the-ribs incident hit your harder than we thought, huh?”

Sam dipped his chin, looking to the ground. “I guess so.”

Dean placed a gentle hand on Sam’s shoulder. “We’ll fix you up, kid. Don’t worry about it.”

Sam shook his head slightly. Conscious thought returned to him – he ran through all the shit they’d experienced, all the monsters they’d killed, and a simple salt and burn – that’s what had got to his head?

Dean slapped him on the back, harder than Sam was ready for. The air choked out of him, but he grabbed it back quickly. “Don’t be a freak about it, kid. It happens. Involuntary response. That’s your caveman brain kicking in.”

Well, Dean wasn’t wrong there. His body had just reacted to the stimulus that had hurt him before… But what else was going to come back to bite them in the ass? What kind of normal life could Sam hope for if he had these… These episodes, or responses to the things they saw in their work, followed Sam into his normal life?

I can’t do both.

The thought came so suddenly that it caught his breath again, and he felt Dean’s grip tighten on his shoulder.

But Sam knew. He couldn’t be a hunter and live a real life. Not if this was the consequence.

Sam peeked up at the game continuing in front of him, suddenly embarrassed at the scene he’d caused. But no one seemed to pay too much attention to them at the bench. “Can we… Can we go?”

Dean was on his feet before Sam could finish the sentence. “This is a stupid game, anyhow, Sam. Why can’t you play water polo? Or, I don’t know, baseball?” He reached his hand out to his brother, catching him by the elbow when Sam rose on shaky legs. “You good?”

Sam breathed out slowly, his head spinning as he regained altitude.

“I’m good. Let’s go home.”

“You’re crazy if you think you’re getting a ride covered in that much muck. You better find yourself a hose, Sammy. Why don’t they play this stupid sport on astro? And why do you have to play in white shorts…?”

Chapter Text

Part 1 of a 2 parter!
Enjoy, review and have a great day

It all happened so fast, Dean barely had a chance to crack open his eyes.

He had become too relaxed. He'd been holed up in a shitty motel, with a shitty flu-bug, with shitty peeling, lavender wallpaper that made him want to tear his eyes out with a shitty fork.

Dean had been bedbound for three days, sleeping for twenty hours a day, waking to take the meds his brother coaxed him into taking, and to quickly throw them back up again.

Things had been on the up, though. He'd managed to stay awake all afternoon, sip his cup-noodle, and comment ceaselessly on Jerry Springer re-runs showing on the grainy TV.

He'd also watched his kid brother slowly descend into the same sickness he'd been experiencing the previous 72 hours.

Sam had started the day making notes in a tome of some Shakespeare play, sipping tea that made Dean's nose twitch. He'd finished the day curled up in a ball on his bed, arms encircled around himself, shivering.

By dinner time, Dean was hobbling around the motel room, every move he made threatening to cause further dramatic vomiting, but the demands of being an awesome big brother keeping him on his feet.

He woke Sam, who peered up at him through glazed eyes and salty bangs, forced some Tylenol down his throat and tucked him back in, allowing his hand to linger on the kid's head as he heard a faint "Thanks, Dean," from the depths of the bed.

His patient resting, Dean felt the call of his own pillow, managing to stay awake long enough to put up the 'do not disturb' sign, latch the door and check the salt lines before he sank into his own comforter.

It was dark out when it all went to Hell.

Dean slept deeply, wrapped up in a dream, when he heard a sharp, close bang.

It took him several seconds to come to, his foggy brain and body still exhausted from his active afternoon.

Too many seconds.

His reactions were slow, hazy. He hadn't even sat up in his bed when the door of their room flew open, the flood of streetlight dazzling Dean's weary eyes.

Two masked men entered the room, one holding a pistol, the shorter of the two training a rifle straight at Dean.

"What the –" Dean croaked, automatically reaching beneath his pillow.

"Hands up!" The tall guy demanded; the barrel of the pistol pointed between Dean's bleary eyes.

Dean could feel sweat pouring from his face, a combination of adrenalin and his body still fighting the virus.

He kept his hands down on the bed, itching to reach for the weapon concealed beneath his pillow.

The taller guy removed the safety from the gun. "I said, get your fucking hands in the air, kid."

Dean sensed movement in the bed next to him, and silently begged Sam to not move a God damn inch.

The guy with the rifle followed his gaze, and quickly aimed his own weapon at the burrito-shape of his sleeping brother.

Dean immediately raised his hands in response, the question of resistance now completely removed his brother had been threatened. "Don't," he said quickly, locking eyes with the rifle-bearer.

Dean cursed inwardly as he heard Sam rousing, woken by his brother's terse tone. "Dad?" He heard the mumble across the gap between their beds. Dean tried desperately to fight the instinct to move closer to the kid.

"You're okay, Sammy, "he said automatically, still staring at the asshole training a hunting rifle on the lumpy figure.

Sam lifted his head above the parapet of his bedding. Dean tore his eyes away from the threat, his heart sinking as he saw Sam had deteriorated while he slept; he was pale, clammy and shaking as he pushed himself up.

"Dean? What -" he said weakly, peering through drenched, sweaty bangs at the two figures in front of them.

"Enough of this shit," the tall guy spat, drawing Dean's attention forward. Keeping his pistol aimed squarely at Dean's head, he reached into his pocket and threw a set of silver handcuffs onto the bed. "Cuff yourself to the headboard."

Dean hesitated.

The tall guy noticed, and smoothly changed his aim towards Sam.

"Alright, alright," Dean said, his voice grating as rage fought reason. "Just… Just leave him out of it, okay?" He scrambled for the cuffs, not taking his eyes off the unknown figures in their room.

The pistol-wielder watched as Dean shakily closed one cuff around the iron post of the headboard, the other loosely around his right wrist. "Tighten that up," he demanded, shaking the gun impatiently.

Dean swallowed as he clicked the cuff, head turning to his brother.

Before he could say anything, the short guy filled the silence. "Get him to the car," he demanded, jutting his chin at Sam, the taller of the two letting his rifle drop a couple of inches.

Dean's blood ran cold.

"But –" the tall guy looked confused, gaze twitching between the two brothers, "He said to bring the smaller one."

"And?"

"Well… This one is smaller," the tall one used the rifle to gesticulate at Dean, who was too enraged to be insulted at the comment.

"He meant the younger one," Little Guy said through gritted teeth, "He means that one. Now get him up and get him outside."

Sam looked frantically towards his brother. Dean could see unabashed terror in his moon-wide eyes, the defiant 17-year-old reduced to his childhood self in the distinct shadow of fear.

"Don't fucking touch him," Dean growled, lunging at the handcuffs like a guard dog on a chain.

The tall guy hesitated again, an arm outstretched towards Sam, the gesture almost making Dean bare his teeth.

"Get on with it," the short guy barked, keeping his gun level at Sam's head, increasingly aware it was the only thing stopping Dean from ripping the bedframe apart.

As the taller man inched forward, something snapped in Sam. He screeched, a cornered cat, and swiped wildly at the encroaching arm. "Get away," he said breathily, fighting the mist of fever. "Don't do that!"

"Get the fuck on with it, Riley," short-ass grumbled.

Riley lunged forward, arms encircling Sam's wild limbs, rifle rattling dangerously close to the kid's head.

"Sammy!" Dean yelled out, pulling furiously at the restraint of the cuffs, wrist strained. He suddenly scrabbled beneath the pillow with his free hand, searching for his Glock –

Which, in his depths of brain-fogging flu, he had somehow forgotten to place in it's usual spot.

"Dean!"

His heart sunk as he saw Riley had his kid brother's arms twisted painfully behind his back, Sam barely able to stand from the exertion and the sickness. The shorter guy trailed the pistol back towards Sam and grabbed a handful of the boy's hair. "Tell your dad she wants the money in 24 hours," he spat at Dean, "Or he can say goodbye to the kid."

"Dean," Sam called out, voice cracking.

Dean could only watch, uselessly, as his brother was removed from the motel room into the night. He snarled and screamed out, rolling off the bed and tried to drag it towards the door by the cuff around his wrist.

He heard a car start and screech out of the lot.

And Sam was gone.

"Bobby, you gotta give me something," Dean growled into the payphone receiver, "Who does dad owe money to?"

Bobby Singer scoffed at the other end of the line. "Where do I start, son? I mean, he owes me a couple grand for fixing that car of his alone…"

Dean crushed the phone in his hand, rubbing his eyes with the other.

It had been twelve hours since Sammy had been taken.

He'd screamed and howled for an hour before someone had come along to his aid, furious at the disruption of the noise.

After picking the lock of the cuffs, Dean had scoured the room, the parking lot, the street for any clue as to who had taken Sam, had phoned every contact they had for John's whereabouts, if anyone had a clue what the hell was going on –

"Bobby," Dean continued through gritted teeth, "I'm losing it here."

Bobby sighed. "I know, I'm really trying to think. They were definitely human, nothing supernatural, about them?"

"Definitely human," Dean mumbled, scanning the parking lot again, "We had all the protection down, we had salt down, a Devil's trap… Just hammered down the door and –"

"Did you get a good listen of the engine? Any idea of the car, did you see it as it left the lot?"

"I was chained to the damn bed," Dean clenched his fist, wincing at the pain at his wrist, "Didn't really get a good look."

Bobby seemed to be only half listening. "If they wanted money that quick, it's a little odd they didn't give you a drop point for the cash… Your dad must have been in pretty deep with them. You sure he didn't mention any loans he'd taken out? Didn't suddenly have a big payday, or, I don't know… Mystery cash that showed up?"

Dean shook his head and screwed his eyes shut. "Bobby, I told you –"

"I'm just running through it all in my head…"

Dean looked up as one of the room doors slammed shut. It was the room next door to their own, and two boys walked quickly to the trunk of their red Corolla.

Dean kept his eyes on them as Bobby rambled down the phone. They were definitely brothers, both with bright red hair and freckles. The younger of the two, who must have been ten, stared unabashedly back across at Dean.

Dean watched as the elder brother hurriedly threw their bags in the back of the car, rifling through the contents of one of them.

The younger brother continued to stare knowingly across the lot.

"He said to bring the smaller one…"

"Bobby," Dean cut across the voice on the phone, "I'll call you back." He kept his eyes locked with the kid, brain pounding as he tried to piece it all together.

He slammed the phone down and the elder brother snapped his head around. He stared at Dean, and grabbed the kid by the shoulder, pushing him towards the passenger door of the Corolla.

"Hey," Dean called across the lot. "Hey!"

The brothers jumped into the car as Dean started across to them, turning to a sprint as the car reversed out of the space and spun its wheels as it raced out of the lot.

"I just want to talk –" Dean yelled, touching the back window of the car as it took off at speed up the street.

He watched helplessly as the car disappeared, feeling even more hopeless than he had before, his heart pounding.

He had 11 hours to find Sammy.

Night had fallen, and Dean paced endlessly in the motel room, wearing a path into the stained carpet.

Despite frantic phone calls, several hours on the street with an old, crumpled photo of his brother, and a call to the police – who were still yet to drop into the motel – he was not an inch closer to finding his brother as he had been 24 hours previously.

24 hours.

He glanced at the clock on the nightstand, seeing the minutes tick down to the final hour of the timeframe Dean had been given.

He shook his head again, still trying to wrap his head around the demands of the two assholes that had taken his brother… The two kids in the room next door… 'Bring the little one...'

Maybe if he didn't still feel like the flu was beating his ass, he could think straight... Or he could have run faster after the car...

"It doesn't make any fucking sense," he growled to himself, kicking the leg of the bed.

And he was running out of time.

He thumbed the Glock in his pocket, cursing himself again for not having it under his pillow last night, wondering if it was worth going to threaten the receptionist again for any information on their neighbours in the Corolla-

When he heard a car racing down the street towards the motel lot.

He looked up, watching as the headlights got brighter and closer.

Dean raced out of the room, throwing the door open –

To see his kid brother, still in his pyjamas, thrown out of the moving car onto the street in front of the motel.

"Sam?" He said breathlessly, frozen in his path. "Sam!"

Chapter Text

“Wake up, kid.”

Sam’s head bobbed as he sat upright in a chair, responsive to his own name but the draw of unconsciousness pulling him back.

He tried to blink, the metallic smell of dried and wet blood – his own blood – making his nostrils flare. His left eye was glued shut, and he could feel the throbbing, swollen flesh around the whole side of his face.

Sam drew a sharp breath, his memory of this situation failing him. He pulled at his arms, jarring them over and over when he found them bound behind his back.

A man chortled in front of him, making him flinch. “That’s right, back down to earth now.”

Sam forced himself to look up, prying his right eye open through blood and sweat.

He tried to swallow, his dry tongue like sandpaper in his mouth. His lips were cracked and split, and when he tried to speak, his voice rattled like a broken-down car.

The guy in front of him approached, and Sam’s heart started to race. He lifted an open bottle of water to Sam’s lips. “Have a little.”

The boy hesitated, looking between the short man in front of him, and the temptation of the cool water within reach…

As Sam leaned forward, the man crumpled the bottle in his fist, the water pouring across the floor. The man grabbed a fistful of the kid’s sweat-soaked hair, forcing his head back. “Not until you tell us where your daddy is.”

Sam screwed his one working eye shut, his head pounding in his skull.

A taller guy hovered in the background. He swung a rusted hammer in his right hand, staring unwaveringly at Sam. “Riley…” he said when Sam returned the gaze through a haze of fevered pain.

“What,” the short guy – Riley – spat.

“I’m really starting to think… I’m starting to think that maybe this kid really doesn’t know anything –“

Riley spun on his heel, making Sam jerk so violently the chair moved back an inch.

“You’re not paid to think, Daniel. You’re paid to do what you’re told,” the short guy, despite his stature, had his companion cornered and cowering. “And I’m telling you what to do.”

Riley took a handful of Danny’s shirtsleeve and threw him towards Sam. Danny looked the kid up and down, swallowing heavily.

Riley paced towards them and touched Sam’s cheek with a gentle hand. “We’re going to turn up the heat, Danny.” He suddenly reached down to the floor, and Sam kicked his feet, tied tightly to the chair legs, defiantly. Riley tore off the filthy socks from his feet and threw them into the corner with a look of disgust.

“We’re going to ask the kid a question,” he said through gritted teeth, as he untied Sam’s right leg, “And if we don’t get a good answer, we’re going to smash one of his toes with that hammer.”

Sam’s heart dropped and found himself shivering in fear. He stared with one eye at Danny, who held the hammer loosely in his hand. Daniel looked back at him, a glazed sheen over his face.

Riley held Sam’s ankle and forced it flush to the floor, easily overpowering the kid’s vain struggle. “Right. My first question – where the fuck is your father?”

Dean’s heart was in his boots as they pounded along the asphalt, eyes locked onto the unmoving sprawl of his brother’s body.

A car drove past the frightening figure on the road, the driver blasting the horn as it went by.

“Sammy,” Dean breathed as he collapsed to his knees on the ground, searching for any sign of life in the corpse of his brother.

He placed a hand on the boy’s chest, relieved to feel the rise and fall – short and shallow though it was – of life. 

That quickly drained as he clocked the range of Sam’s injuries, the soiled mess of his nightwear, and the smell of sickness still radiating from his body. “Oh God, Sammy,” he muttered, placing a shaking hand on the less damaged half of his face –

And lunged back as Sam forced open his one good eye, glazed in the moonlight.

The kid let out a guttural cry and lashed out in front of him, miles from the target.

“Whoa, Sammy,” Dean started, hands out like a rancher calming a stallion. “Sam, its me –“

He dodged another wide swing, falling back onto his elbow as Sam cried out through bleeding lips and stumbled to his feet.

Dean watched in horror as his kid brother hobbled into the road, balancing on rocking heels as he lurched beneath the streetlights. He shot to his own feet, distraught as Sam cried out his big brother’s name, heart tearing in two.

“Hey, it’s me, Sammy,” he soothed desperately, keeping a wide berth around the kid.

Sam looked wildly around through salt-crusted bangs. A shudder of relief seemed to rattle through him, and Dean watched patiently, arms outstretched, palms up.

Dean broke the silence. “Please, let me help you,” he said quietly, fighting the instinctual urge to grab Sam around the shoulders and never let him out of his sight again.

“Dean,” the boy croaked, stumbling forward, arms collapsing to his sides, bare feet curled up.

Dean barely caught his kid before he crumbled into the asphalt, grunting as he tried to bear his weight. Sam grappled into his sleeves with tight fists, breathing heavily.

“You’re okay, Sammy,” Dean mumbled, allowing himself a minute to come to terms with the return of his brother. “Let’s get you off the street. Can you walk?”

Sam gave no audible response.

Dean looked down at the kids’ bare feet, seeing several of the toes crushed and missing nails. A shock of anger coursed his bloodstream, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut.

“Sammy, can I carry you?” He asked gently.

Sam gurgled in response and tried to pull away, forcing Dean to counteract the dead weight.

“Hurts,” he said, moving an arm to cradle his torso.

Dean didn’t hesitate to lift the ruined, stinking shirt, and swore as he found a collage of bruising and bleeding painting the skin.

“Come on,” he said through gritted teeth, swinging Sam’s arm over his shoulder. Sam teetered on his heels as they waddled back to the room, avoiding any weightbearing on his toes.

They surged together through the motel room door, and Dean deposited his brother on his own rumpled bed.

Slamming the door shut – apologising in a low voice as the noise made Sam flinch – he stepped quickly into the bathroom, running the hot water.

He continually poked his read around the door to check on Sam, who had sat, unmoving – other than the disturbing vibrating his body seemed to be doing – on the edge of the bed, staring with one eye at the floor.

Dean grabbed the first aid kit, cursing himself at forgetting to refill it after their last dalliance with death.

“I’m going to cut your shirt off,” he warned, fishing out the scissors and started working around Sam’s listless, quivering figure on the bed. The lack of… the lack of anything from his brother was distressing, and Dean found himself torn between trying to treat the wounds he could see and picking at the ones he couldn’t.

Shirt deposited in rags on the floor, Dean paused as he surveyed in horror his damaged boy. Brusing, welts from a smack with a belt, the colorful egg on his eye, likely from a pistol whipping.

A pistol whipping.

Somone had pistol whipped Sam…

He sat opposite his brother on the second bed, his heart pounding like he was on a chase,  searching for any eye contact.

“Sammy,” he said gently.

Sam moved his bloodshot eye to stare back at his brother.

“What happened?”

Sam lay on his side, toppled over in the chair. His feet bled; his face burned; the open wounds on his body throbbed. Blood oozed from his mouth onto the concrete floor.

His head was pounding in his skull as Riley kneeled in front of him, screaming inches from his face, spittle flying from his mouth.

“Where is the cash, then? You gonna tell me it’s tucked up safe in a bank somewhere?” He yelled, digging his thumb into a deep gash he’d carved into Sam’s thigh.

“No… Cash,” Sam rasped, so depleted he couldn’t react to the new assault of pain on his body.

“Bullshit!” Riley screamed, punching Sam in the unprotected gut.

Sam wretched as Riley stood, bile stinging his mouth.

“You have wasted too much of my time, kid,” he seethed, storming around the dark room, in search of some new torture device for use.  

Daniel stood as far back as he could from the scene, watching Riley helplessly.  “Maybe he really doesn’t know,” he suggested.

“Of course he knows!” Riley screeched as he tore through a duffel bag on the ground. “They spend their whole lives in the pockets of that jackass – they see everything, every single deal, every transaction. They’ll know the name of every customer, every dealer their daddy has ever sold to, every hiding place that he has stuffed their money - “ He pulled out a pair of what Sam could only describe as a bread knife from the duffel, “And she wants us to get those names and locations, so she can recoup the cash they stole.”

Sam’s heart sunk, the story sounding even more unfamiliar this time around.

He had tried to rack his brains to place these assholes, to understand how they fit in with John, with his family. In his exhaustion and pain, he was starting to believe they were telling the truth – that John was, in fact, an international drug baron, and Sam actually knew even less about his father than he thought he did.

But Riley and Daniel, for all their creativity in causing pain, were slow – or unwilling – to hear Sam’s explanations and protestations, and simply believed that Sam was tolerating their methods too well.

Riley stormed back up to Sam, who didn’t even have the energy left to turn his head to look.

“Your time is running out,” he hissed, pressing the ridged blade into an unmarked portion of Sam’s skin. “Tell me – where will the next drop be?”

Sam went to croak out a reply when the door to the room swung open, making Daniel jump a foot to his left.

Riley clambered to his feet as a figure walked into the single ceiling light. She was tall, hair tightly curled. A pair of red-bottomed heels came into focus in Sam’s good eye. He scanned her up and down, trying his best to appear threatening like a cornered dog. She covered her mouth with her hand, eyes scrunched in distaste at the scene in front of her.

“Riley,” she said darkly, staring at Sam’s disfigured feet. “What is going on here?”

Riley, still puffing from his rant, looked blankly at the woman. “It’s Calum O’Toole. The younger son, just like you said,” he declared. Daniel looked frantically between the woman and the door.

The woman nodded, still covering her mouth and nose with her polished fingers. She walked around Sam, although he could only hear the clacking of her heels on the concrete floor behind him.

“Calum O’Toole,” she repeated, and Sam felt her kneel beside his head. A hand ghosted over the injured side of his face, from chin to brow. “Tell me, Riley. What colour hair does Mr. O’Toole have?”

A pause. “Red,” Riley replied flatly.

“And Eoin, the older son. What about him?” She continued, as she ran a hand through Sam’s sweat ridden hair.

“R-Red,” Riley responded, dropping the bread knife with a clatter onto the ground.

“So what colour hair,” she clamped Sam’s hair into her fist and wrenched his head up, “Do you think the youngest son, Calum O’Toole would have -“ She slammed his head back into the ground, “Who I also told you, is 10 years old?”

She gestured to Sam’s lean, long body, and stood to meet Riley’s height. The man said nothing, gaping desperately at his boss.

“You have the wrong goddamned kid!”

“Wrong… Wrong room,” Sam breathed. “Wrong kid.”

Dean dug his nails into the bedsheets with his left hand, the right still holding the plastic handle of the scissors. He thought of the two redheaded kids in the Corolla, the look the smaller one gave him across the lot, the car racing away outwith his reach…

“God damn it,” he said through gritted teeth.

The monsters who had taken Sam and chained Dean to the bedframe had come into the wrong room, taken the kid, beaten him senseless, realised their mistake, and dumped him back on the doorstep.

Dean ran through his recollections, blood pounding in his ears. He twitched his head as Sam wavered on the side of the bed, head bobbing. “Stay with me.”

Sam shook his head, staring listlessly at his mangled feet. “Hospital. Please.”

Dean could have ripped his own heart out to stop the pain he felt from hearing that. Winchesters didn’t do emergency services. They barely did help. Sam asking to go get poked, prodded, stabbed and questioned?

“Yeah. I think we need the damn cops too.”

Sam croaked a laugh, which turned into an exhausted, wheezing cough. He clawed onto Dean’s forearm. Tight, dark bruising rotted his wrists.

“Jesus, Sammy –“

“Dean, it’s better it was me, than a ten year old kid,” Sam breathed harshly.

“That’s what you think,” Dean muttered, but knew the idiot was right. Because if it was anyone but Sam, they wouldn’t have survived the ordeal his kid brother had.

Calum O’Toole sat slumped on the motel couch, a cherry Ring Pop stuffed in his left cheek, swinging his dangling feet.

He sighed as the TV flickered, cut out momentarily before the picture cleared again.

This was their third week in crappy rooms, with crappy TV’s and crappy food. It was also three weeks since he had last seen his dad, when he’d heard him and Eoin arguing in hushed tones through the night, and he’d woken up to an empty bed beside him.

“He’s off to work,” Eoin kept saying, not quite looking Calum in the eye. “Don’t worry, we’ll meet him in Chicago.”

Then it was meeting in St. Louis, Milwaukee, Des Moines, Fort Wayne…

But still, they were alone together, without Dad.

He huffed again as the TV cut out completely. “Stupid thing,” he mumbled to himself, standing to slap the side of the box.

Eoin elbowed his way out the bathroom, familiar red hair sticking up all ways. “What did the damn thing do to you?”

“It keeps breaking.”

“Probably cause ye’ keep hitting it.”

Calum launched his ring pop across the room at his brother. Eoin caught it deftly, grinning as he popped it into his mouth. “Ta.”

Calum threw himself back into the couch, not wanting his brother to see the tears brimming. He composed himself before asking, “When are we meeting up with Dad?”

“Soon.” Eoin didn’t hesitate in his response, which only annoyed Calum further. “He’s busy working, mind? He can’t always drag us around with him.”

“It wasn’t a problem until three weeks ago.”

“Well, three weeks ago things changed, Cal. He’s got a few big new clients, a few big new products he’s dealing with. He needs to sort all that rubbish out before we can all be together again.”

Calum chewed his lip. He felt his brother hovering over him now, infuriated but comforted by his presence. He sniffed. “I just miss it being all us three.”

“I know, pal. Me too.” Eoin’s voice softened, and the Galway twang that he’d inherited from their father strengthened with it. “But we just need to keep a low profile just now, keep things moving, and once things are… Established, we’ll all be together again.” Eoin ran a hand through his brother’s hair, a gesture usually reserved to their father.

“Do you think we can go back home?”

“Maybe. Or maybe  we’ll have a new home by then…”

“Really?! Do you think we’ll have our own rooms this time?” Calum’s heart lifted, and he grinned up at his brother. “Maybe a pool?”

Eoin smiled down at him, and ruffled his hair before turning away. “Sure, maybe like a lazy river around the house?”

“Like when we went to Cancun?”

Eoin pulled on a pair of tracksuit pants. “Exactly… Or maybe we’ll move to Mexico. Tacos all day long -”

There was a sharp knock at the door. Eoin paused.

Calum jumped up from the couch. “Is that pizza?” He ran towards the door, his evening improving significantly with every minute  -

“Calum, wait –“

Calum tore open the door, his smile quickly dropping as, instead of a uniformed delivery guy, he was staring down the barrel of a pistol, clenched in the fist of one of the biggest men he had ever seen.

He was tall, with cold, glazed eyes and rage in his gaze. Calum backed up two steps.

“Hold it there,” the guy said.

Calum looked quickly at Eoin, who stared back, pale and sweating.

“Your daddy there?” The guy asked.

Calum shook his head.

“Your brother?”

He didn’t move.

He felt Eoin inching towards him on tiptoes, and tried his best not to look towards him.

The guy suddenly lunged into the room and pointed the gun instead at Eoin. Calum’s heart dropped.

“We don’t have much time,” the guy said, and slammed the door behind him. Calum watched as he placed the safety back on the pistol, shoving it in his waistband.

Calum was suddenly shoved behind his brother; Eoin stood tall in front of him so Calum could barely see the stranger. “We’ve got nothing on us,” Eoin spat.

The stranger raised his eyebrow. “Look. You’re being followed.”

Calum peeked around his brother’s figure, mouth wide.

“They nearly caught you back in Columbus. You just got lucky.” The guy was pissed, but he also seemed really… Sad.

“I don’t know what –“

“You’re being watched right now. Y’know that?” He carried on, shaking his head. “You’re too obvious. You need to ditch the car. In fact, change car everytime you need stop for gas. You know how to hotwire, kid?”

Eoin didn’t respond. Calum knew he did.

“Thought you might. Listen to me. There are some ass- There are some bad people coming after you. Whatever it is that your dad does, whatever… business, work that he’s in – he’s made himself some enemies. And they want to get to him. But to get to him, they’re trying to get to you. And by you, I mean…” The guy looked down briefly at Calum.

Eoin tucked Calum a little further behind him. “You’re mad. You’re absolutely mental. My dad is a pharmaceutical –“

“Yeah, yeah,” the guy continued, waving off the sentence. He tossed a folded piece of paper on the closest bed. “I don’t have time for this. You need to get your brother to this address – he’s a Pastor. Blue Earth in Minnesota. Travel light and travel smart.” He looked between them, before asking Eoin – “You got a weapon?”

Calum felt his eyes widen with horror when Eoin slowly nodded yes.

“Good. Keep it close.” The guy looked over his shoulder at the closed door. “You can’t stay any longer. They’re coming for you, for him - and they’re close. Get to Blue Earth – in anything but that Corolla.”

“But who-“ Calum piped up, but was cut short as the guy threw open the door to leave.

“Whatever your Dad is doing, he’s putting you both in danger.”

They were both still, alone now in the room. Eoin breathed out heavily, almost like a stutter. He swallowed. “Get your stuff, Cal. We need to boost.”

Calum looked up at the stranger of his brother. Eoin started to hurriedly throw their belongings into bags, while Calum ran to the window, perched on his toes as he looked out to the lot.

The huge stranger was hovering outside a black, old-fashioned car, bent over the open passenger door. Calum could just make out a dark figure in the seat. The stranger ran a hand through his black hair, and Calum ghosted his own hand through his red hair, feeling his brother’s earlier touch.

The stranger slammed the door shut and paced around to the driver’s side. He glanced over at the motel room window, and Calum shivered at the piercing glare.

“Cal, get your stuff,” Eoin ordered behind him.

Calum rocked back on his heels as the black car reversed.

“Where are we going?” He asked.

Eoin was stuffing Calum’s belongings into a paper bag.

“Blue Earth.”

“In our car?”

“No.”

“That was the guy who chased the car before, right? In Columbus?”

Eoin stopped and looked at his brother. There was fear in his eyes as he nodded.

Calum chewed his lip as he mulled over the thousand questions in his mind. “Can… Can I pick the car we take?”

Eoin grinned. “You sure can.”

“And the music?”

“Nawh. That’s the drivers’ responsibility, kid.”