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Chapter Text

"God save us from half the people who think they're doing God's work."

– Dean Winchester, 'Faith.'

"Sam. SAM!" Dean whispered vehemently in the old hoodoo shop. Sam turned around, surprised, and acquiesced to Dean's quick step and reach, harshly grabbing Sam's arm. Sam stumbled forward, knocking into Dean's side, and Dean kept him there, his hand on his shoulder.

"Ah, Dean…" Sam said in an undertone. Dean's hand had clamped down on his shoulder blade. Dean immediately loosened his grip, but kept his hand where it was.

"Sorry," he murmured genuinely before turning back to the elderly man just approaching the counter from a back room. He carried a large brown paper bag in his hands and set it down in front of them, eyeing the label.

"All right, 'Winchester?'"

"Yeah," Dean confirmed. The man gave Dean the creeps, as did the entire shop, but he flashed a crisp smile as the man nodded and rummaged through the bag's contents.

"All right that'll be seventy-six dollars."

"Straight?" Dean asked, surprised no tax had been tacked on. The man at the desk chuckled, shaking his head.

"Son, we don't report these sales," he said slyly, glancing at the bag and back at Dean with a slow wink.

Dean swallowed and couldn't help a look of disgust. He looked down quickly to hide his expression and find the cash in his pocket. At the same time, he moved his hand on Sam's shoulder around to his chest, pulling his brother's back closer against his side. Sam let him, still seemingly absent - fascinated by the trinkets around the small store.

"Here you go," Dean set the money on the counter and grabbed the bag. "C'mon Sam," Dean whispered, pressuring his arm wrapped around his brother. Sam followed suit without complaint, but awkwardly shambled under Dean's overbearing presence. Sam reached the door first, but Dean had already reached forward to open it for Sam to walk through.

When they got back into the light of day (the shop had been dimly lit and poorly ventilated), Dean loosened his grip on Sam, feeling some of his unease lift.

"Dean!" Sam slapped Dean's arm away sharply. "What the hell!" He asked, stopping dead and facing his brother in the middle of the sidewalk. Dean, caught off guard, stopped to look at Sam blankly.

"What?"

"Listen, I get what happened last week. I really do. But you gotta lay off, man!" Sam hissed.

"Lay off with what?" Dean asked, annoyed.

"You! You're constantly standing over me – If I'm not like two inches away from you, you totally flip out!"

"Sam, I just want you to be safe-" Dean stressed, but Sam cut him off.

"I'm safe! I'm safe, Dean! God! What happened last week was a total fluke!"

"Sam-" Dean pointed at his brother, warning in his tone.

"Seriously! Last week I needed you and you weren't there for like… Two seconds. But then you were. And everything's fine, now! So stop!" Sam's voice broke at his last word. "Please, Dean, just stop?" Sam begged, his eyes watery.

Dean watched the quick transformation Sam had made from angry brat to pleading little brother. His reactions matched Sam – from annoyed teenager to sympathetic big brother.

Looking into Sam's eyes was tough; Dean so wanted to give Sam the independence he was asking for…

Dean licked his lips in a grimace, regret and conviction battling each other in his reply.

"Sam, I won't stop until we get out of Louisiana."

"-Dean!" Sam said, his voice small. He was on the brink of tears; frustrated and helpless by how stiflingly unbearable Dean had become with him.

Dean felt for his little brother, he really did, but not as much as he feared the inhabitants of this small, run-down town.

"Sam- Sam? Listen to me," he said as he crouched down and pulled Sam towards him. Sam stepped forward, turning his head down so Dean couldn't look into his eyes. Dean pressed forward, though. "Listen, I promise you, when we get out of here, I'll be better. You just need to deal with it for right now, okay? I know it's hard…"

Dean saw a tear fall from Sam's down-turned face.

"Hey-" Dean moved his hand to the side of Sam's face, "C'mon, Sammy, seriously, it's just for now. It's just with these people-"

Sam nodded and suppressed a sob.

"Sam-" Dean replied to Sam's cry and reached out for a hug. Sam moved into it, his breath gasping with a mixture of relief and frustration.

"Sammy, this is just temporary, I swear-" Dean said lightly, trying to get Sam to relax. He rubbed Sam's back as he felt the kid's body tremble slightly. After a few moments, Sam got it together enough to speak back.

"It's not!" Sam inhaled fast after that, but continued. "It's not temp-temporary, Dean. There's- s'always gonna be people…" Sam couldn't continue, breaking down in Dean's arms.

"Sh, Sammy, calm down," Dean replied smoothly, "Calm down and I'll tell you my answer to what you just said," Dean whispered, "Just calm down for me, okay? I have a fact for you," Dean lured. He waited for him patiently, holding Sam loosely as the kid pulled himself together.

"Okay you ready? Ready for this?"

"Yeah," Sam whispered reluctantly.

"Okay," Dean rubbed Sam's back and shoulders, a signal that he wanted Sam to move back and look at him in the eyes. Sam did so, staring at Dean with an unmistakable doubt, yet a readiness to hope.

"All right. Listen to me," Dean thought about his next words, choosing them very carefully: "This place is… Really… Disturbing-"

"-But we're hunters… Every place is disturbing-" Sam trailed off as Dean shook his head meaningfully.

"No, no. That's not what I mean," Dean paused, then sighed. "I mean it's especially disturbing when it comes to something like Epilepsy."

Sam's brow furrowed in confusion and Dean bit his lip with worry, not sure if he was making the right choice about informing Sam about this… But it was either that, or Sam thinkinganyone could be like this about Epilepsy.

So, Dean chose the lesser of the two evils… And, luckily, the more accurate one.

"Sammy, people in small towns like this – and in this region there's been a lot of superstitions and religions intermixing for so long – they react to a lot of things… really… Strangely…" Dean trailed off, trying so hard to telepathically convey his meaning, but Sam still looked confused and gave a shake of his head.

"What are you talking about, Dean?" Sam asked bluntly, his curiosity having completely dashed any remnants of sadness he was feeling. At least Dean's blithering had brought around that change in disposition; Dean was thankful for it.

"Okay. Um," Dean looked around, suddenly realizing they were in public.

"Let's go home and I'll explain it to you when we're not around people."

Dean got up and grabbed Sam's hand, holding it close to him as they started down the sidewalk. Sam, used to it by now, was compliant to Dean's need for him to be so close. He literally followed in-step with Dean, now, which was tough, because Dean had started to walk a lot faster when they were around town and Sam had to double-time his stride at every step of Dean's.

After a few minutes of walking, Sam's curiosity got the better of him.

"Dean?" He murmured, his voice small.

"Yeah?"

"Is what you're going to tell me at the motel. Does it have to do with what happened last week?"

Sam saw Dean's jaw clench as he determinedly stared forward, unwilling to answer the question. Sam knew the answer to his question, now, just by that look. But he wanted to hear Dean say it.

"Dean-?" Sam prompted.

Dean's demeanor shifted instantly – his carefree façade switched on, Dean glanced at his brother with a crooked smile and shrugged.

"Eh, yeah, a little bit. I'll tell ya when we get home. What movie you want to watch tonight? We should stop off at the video store."

"Hook," Sam said emphatically.

"What about the Terminator?"

"Can we do both?!"

"Yeah let's do both. Movie marathon tonight."

"Yes!" Sam fist pumped the air, causing Dean to laugh. Inwardly, he was hoping that by the time they'd reached the motel, Sam would have forgotten to ask about Dean's promised explanation. Either that, or that their Dad would be home to talk about it to Sam. Because, honestly, the last thing Dean wanted to talk about was last week - the first day they'd arrived in town.

"Hey- Sam!" Dean turned around in the passenger seat.

"What?" Sam replied in an undertone, his interest obviously still in his book despite Dean's enthusiasm.

"Look! This town has a Plucky's!" Dean ribbed.

Sam looked up with disgust, turning to see where Dean was pointing out the windows.

"Dean-" Sam warned.

"C'mon! Why not?!" Dean joked.

"-Because you'll leave me there - you always do - and it's always creepy as shit!" Sam whined, half playing along with Dean, half genuinely angry at the memories he was conjuring up.

"Language, Sam," John called out. Sam and Dean ignored him.

"I won't leave you," Dean insisted, acting as though such a thing never happened. Sam glared at his brother from the backseat.

"Yes you will."

"No I won't."

John waited a few seconds, wondering if they'd leave it at that. Dean turned around to face the windshield. Then a small voice broke out from the backseat.

"Yes you will," Sam said bitterly.

"No, I won't!" Dean turned around and yelled back.

"Guys, cool it!" John called, not keenly interested to hear his sons continue to say the same three words back and forth to one another. The boys let it go at his request and Dean settled in the passenger seat once again.

Dean surveyed the small, rundown Louisiana town as John drove the Impala through its potholed streets. It was way off the grid, but still relatively close to New Orleans. Voodoo and magic was a matter of gossip, not superstition here. Dean stared at a series of dilapidated houses that ran with the main street (aptly titled, 'Main Street') with a grimace.

"You know, Dad, if this is how the houses look, how do you think the motel's gonna be?" Dean asked. John glanced over to his eldest and they shared a mutual look of apprehension.

"I guess we'll see," John finally answered.

A few minutes later, as they rolled into a small dirt parking lot of the motel (which only held five rooms), the facility was as old and rickety as expected. Sam was alert, now, looking out of his side window, a pained expression on his face.

"It looks like it's going to collapse," Sam whispered, not meaning to be funny. Dean snorted anyway.

"Ah," John said, squinting as he appraised the shambled structure after he'd parked. "It's not going to collapse," he finished, sounding like he had just reached the conclusion himself. "All right, everybody out."

Dean popped out of the passenger seat and, as he walked to the trunk of the Impala, Sam tagging along behind him, turned around casually and whispered to his brother.

"You'd think this motel was the hunt."

Sam's eyes widened, nodding.

"Yeah really," he agreed in his own whisper.

"I can hear you," John said conversationally, almost comically, from behind the car. The boys and their father started pulling out their belongings and equipment to take into the room (all three were loathe to make more than one trip).

"Dad, so, what has got us here in the middle of nowheresville?"

"Ah," John murmured dismissively, "It's probably nothing actually." John shut the trunk and they ambled towards the office. "This place has a lot of hoaxes; a lot of ridiculous claims with the supernatural. We're here for a possible demon possession, but if you look at their stats, it might've just been coincidence that they finally got the details right."

"Oh, like, so they say a lot of people are possessed, but none of them are?" Sam rephrased. John opened the door to the office, ignoring Sam for the moment when he went up to the counter. Sam followed Dean, who stopped short of the counter and leaned back against the wall to wait for John to get the key. He looked down at Sam to answer his question.

"Yeah, he's saying that there are a lot of people here that claim they're possessed by a demon but really aren't. So I guess Dad's here because one of the claims sounds like it might be real, but it could've been just by accident that it sounds like that," Dean whispered.

"Oh okay cool. So it might be nothing?" Sam asked hopefully. Dean shrugged nonchalantly, turning to stare into space.

"Yeah Dad just said it was probably nothing," Dean replied simply and pushed his bag higher up against his shoulder. Sam yawned and leaned against the wall next to his brother, unconsciously mimicking him.

"You tired?" Dean asked lightly, having seen Sam out of his peripheral vision. Sam shrugged.

"No, not really."

"You want to take a walk after this?" Dean offered casually.

"Yeah -where?"

Dean shrugged.

"I don't know. Get a lay of the land, I guess."

Sam nodded lazily.

"Sure."

About an hour later, Sam and Dean were walking down the sidewalk of Main Street. John had settled them in and charged Dean with getting Sam home by dusk (it was about two in the afternoon), bed by nine. He'd taken off to visit the home of the woman that was supposedly possessed, unsure if he was going to spend the night by accepting the family's likely offer of hospitality. He made this clear to both his boys before leaving and gave Dean quite enough cash for several days.

Dean paced himself with Sam, who tended to walk slowly to take in the sights. And while the sights weren't pretty, they were certainly unlike anything the two of them had ever seen. Spanish moss hung everywhere; the destroyed architecture was once obviously quite lavish: it had to have been beautiful in the fifties, but the weathering and erosion had fallen the town over the decades. Quite literally, the only location that looked vaguely new was the Plucky Pennywhistle's Magical Menagerie location just on the corner of Main and LaCroix.

"Hey Sam-?" Dean ventured, staring at the place. They'd been walking under the blanket of hot humidity for nearly half an hour. Sam looked at Dean, then followed his brother's gaze.

"Dean, no," Sam whined slowly.

"C'mon, please? Air conditioning. I'll get you ice cream," Dean wheedled. Sam huffed and threw a stone he'd been fidgeting with into the street.

"Fine," he gave in, frustrated. Dean grinned as they both angled their way to the Plucky's.

"You know, if it's any consolation, I think the clowns on the walls and stuff are kinda freaky," Dean mentioned as they approached the doors.

"The living ones are so much worse," Sam countered, his voice flat. Dean chuckled as he went first and greeted the clown stationed at the front to welcome them.

"Welcome to Plucky Pennywhistle's Magical Menagerie!" The animated actor opened his arms wide and spoke with feigned awe and wonder. Dean was grinning wide, about to thank the clown sarcastically when he realized Sam was no longer next to him. He couldn't help but start laughing when he saw that Sam had positioned himself directly behind him.

"Aw, Sammy," Dean joked, putting his hand behind Sam's back and pushing him over to stand next to him. Sam looked displeased, but he was willing to move to Dean's side as long as he was still pressed up against him. Dean lazily rested his arm around Sam.

"Clown phobia," Dean explained to the clown as he ushered his little brother away, keeping himself as the barrier between Sam and the actor.

"Ah, nothing to be afraid of!" The clown shouted cheerfully after them, making Dean laugh when he felt Sam's shoulders flinch at the sound of it.

Dean moved the two of them to the eating area and eyed the menu on the marquee as he sat down at a table. About six or seven kids were around playing games, but all the tables in the food section were empty. Sam appreciated the lack of kids around; he was used to throngs of screaming children jostling their way around him and he'd come to a vague dislike of crowds as a result.

"Clowns are so scary," Sam said, letting out a breath as he slid into his seat across from Dean.

"Well," Dean started picking his tooth absently as he kept his eyes on the menu, "I'll give you that the guy in the clown suit back there was kinda old." Dean smiled at his observation, then looked back to Sam, who made a visible shiver of dislike. Dean chuckled. In truth, the guy was relatively old – the makeup couldn't hide that he had to be in his late-twenties, early thirties. Dean was a little wary of it, but figured that a lot of adults in this broke-down town must moonlight jobs to stay afloat financially. Either that or it was a John Wayne Gasey situation. At that thought, it was Dean's turn to shiver – only he hid it successfully – as he vowed to himself that he'd never tell Sam about that piece of killer-clown lore.

"All right. Ice cream?" Dean said cheerfully. Sam shrugged and nodded.

"Okay. Be right back," Dean announced, and got up. He moved around the food area's partition, stopped, then walked back to their table, leaning over the bars towards Sam.

"What about cheese fries – you want cheese fries?"

"Ew, no."

"'kay I'm getting cheese fries," Dean replied without missing a beat, and turned back around to wait in line.

Sam sighed and put his elbows on the table, staring into space. He absentmindedly fiddled with his bracelet, now relatively comfortable with it. He often messed with the clasp, making a satisfying sound as he'd click it off and on. It had the dual purpose of driving Dean nuts sometimes, which always made Sam laugh.

After a few minutes, Sam noticed Dean hadn't come back yet and looked over to the food counter. He wasn't surprised, but definitely disappointed, to find Dean talking to the cashier. The very pretty teenaged cashier.

Sam groaned, rolling his eyes, and watched with mounting dismay as he saw his brother give her his, 'just wait two seconds,' gesture as he backed away to bring Sam their food. Grinning, Dean approached with the red plastic tray and leaned over the bars to set it down on the table. He looked up at Sam and noticed his little brother's defeated expression.

"What?"

Sam nodded sadly to the girl.

"What's her name?" He asked heavily. Dean smiled brightly.

"Brianna," he said dazzlingly, and laughed. Sam let out a sigh and gazed down at the tray of food with distaste.

"Hey, Sammy- You don't mind-"

"No, go," Sam waved Dean off with a depressed air, not bothering to look at his brother.

"'Kay thanks. She's just on break for fifteen minutes. I'll be back before ya know it!" Dean assured Sam happily.

"Whatever," Sam mumbled as Dean took off.

Two seconds later, Sam gasped when Dean jumped back into sight.

"Hey!" Dean called out, dropping a coloring book and crayons onto the table. "Oh sorry - Reading material!" He stated, slightly out of breath, then bolted away. Sam, exasperated, watched after his brother as he left the back way (the employees only exit) with Brianna.

Sam huffed and looked down at the coloring book. After a second or two, he opened it with a sigh, trying to find a page that didn't feature a clown. He got to one of a fire truck and tried to get relatively creative. He drew inside the lines, but he'd often add lines of his own; creating patterns within the lined spaces. Dean always liked it when he did that.

For a short while, Sam alternated between colors inside the fire truck. His focus dedicated on the page before him, he suddenly noticed his eyesight flickering in and out at the bottom of his peripheral vision. Sam blinked at the page, annoyed, trying to get the vague flashing to disappear, then looked around and realized that the visual was happening everywhere he looked – consistently at the bottom edge of his sight. A wave of dread fell over Sam and he broke into a sweat. His crayon dropped from his hand as he struggled to stand up. His vision now affected, his vocal chords seemingly tied, all Sam could do was take a few minute steps into a clearer space of floor.

Pale and sweaty, Sam just stood in the center of the food area, experiencing the aura. A dull buzzing started inside Sam's head and he started yawning his mouth to stop it – and then he couldn't stop.

If anything could have been more terrifying, Sam didn't really know what it was until the sight of a clown's face appeared in front of his face. The clown looked serious, was probably asking him questions, but Sam couldn't rightly gauge what they were as he slipped into the seizure.

He felt harsh, constricting hands grab his shoulders and Sam tensed, scared. That was the last moment he could recall as he fell under, his whole body shuddering as he lost control and dropped.

"Claire! CLAIRE! Get in here!" The actor shouted to the manager of Plucky's. The middle-aged woman heard the dramatic call from the local pastor and rushed out as fast as her legs could carry her. It wasn't fast; she held a considerable amount of weight, compliments of her cost-saving yet nutrient-deficient diet of Plucky's fast food and the local diner.

"What? What is it?" She squealed her accent, then stopped short at the boy on the floor, the pastor in his clown costume kneeling over him. "Oh my lord," she whispered in awe, crossing herself.

"The boy, Claire! Help me!" The pastor called to her as he struggled to hold him down. The boy was writhing, slowly contorting his arms, limbs and torso around, flexing and releasing muscles at random. Eyes glazed and pupils dilated, the boy's mouth gaped open and shut closed like a dying fish.

"Oh dear lord Jesus," Claire whispered vehemently as she rushed over and crouched down next to the pastor. "What do we do, Cal?!" She asked, terrified, holding the boy's arm down by his wrist; Cal had the boy's other wrist in a death grip against the floor. Cal leaned down and pushed his forearm down hard down the center of the boy's chest. The boy continued to writhe underneath him and Cal looked up at Claire.

"Do you know this boy?" Cal demanded, his eyes lit with the fire of zealotry.

"No, pastor, never seen him!" Claire cried, scared at what she was witnessing. Cal looked down, then back up at Claire. "Pastor, what's goin' on here!?" Claire whispered in fear.

"The devil's got in 'im," Cal replied dramatically, looking back down at the child with utter contempt and disgust. The boy's slow flexes started to decrease in lieu of tremors which the pastor rightly anticipated would get worse.

"Back away! Back away!" Claire screamed at the rest of the children that had encircled the scene.

"Back room! NOW, Claire!" Cal yelled, picking the trembling boy up in his arms and rushing to the employee only door that Dean had used to exit the premises only five minutes prior.

The shakes got worse in the span of seconds, and Cal struggled with the boy as Claire followed his lead into the back room and set him down in the middle of the floor. Sam's shakes continued as Cal, a man of action, grabbed his belt from his locker and handed it to Claire.

"Put it in his mouth," Cal ordered, knowing demons tried to get their victims to bite off their tongues. Claire collapsed next to the boy and jammed the belt into his mouth.

"Hold him down!" Cal ordered again, and Claire, knowing she held no arm strength, proceeded to set her knee against the boy's solar plexis. It was too heavy, but she couldn't know; the boy wasn't reacting to anything. Cal grabbed his bible from a desk and kneeled before the child.

"Pray with me Claire," he said powerfully, then pushed the book down onto Sam's forehead as the boy's seizure only intensified, slamming between the book and the hard floor; his spine spasming forcefully against the cement.

"Dear lord in heaven – get his hands, Claire! By the wrists! – Dear lord in heaven, we implore you, in the name of Jesus Christ – Do not forsake this child – Do not let him succumb to the forces of evil. Release him! Release him, Lord-"

The boy continued to writhe under the pastor's ministrations and Claire started to cry silently with fear as she prayed with her pastor that this boy's life may be saved.

Chapter Text

"Demons I get. People are crazy" – Dean Winchester, 'The Benders.'

Dean was laughing with Brianna as he entered into the 'employees only,' hallway from the exit.

"So I'll see you on Monday, then, I guess, yeah?" Dean grinned casually, then stopped, listening to voices echoing down the hallway.

"Haha yeah I guess if you don't call me first," Brianna flirted, gently pushing Dean's chest playfully. Dean gave a vague smile, absently reaching to touch her hand. He kept his eyes down the hall, though.

"What the hell-?" He finally asked, pointing down the hall. Brianna rolled her eyes and giggled as if Dean was in on the joke as she explained.

"Yeah our clown's the town pastor – real fire and brimstone guy," she said, waving her hand, "So we get this sometimes – he'll practice sermons and stuff in the back room," she finished as she led Dean to the door to get out into the Plucky's, 'fun,' area. Dean followed in-step, shaking his head.

"Man, he sounds intense," he murmured, put-off. Brianna laughed dully.

"He's an intense guy," she replied over her shoulder as she directed her walk over to the food counter. Dean walked with her, searching for Sam. His clean sweep of the place took two seconds and he stopped dead. Their food was untouched, still on their table. He panned around again, hoping against hope that he'd just missed his kid upon the first inspection.

Dean ran over to the table, looking for any sign of Sam and only spotted the dropped crayon. His eyes widened and breathe caught: false claims of demon possession, and the town pastor here. If Sam had had a seizure…

Dean took a vague step back.

"Dean?" Brianna asked, spotting his expression.

Dean bolted, turning back around to the, 'employees only,' door and slammed it open so hard that its top hinge shattered. Dean heard the voices again: a man bellowing out prayers from the end of the corridor. Dean didn't stop; his terror and adrenaline pushing him like lightning down the tunnel.

One beat of his heart, he had reached the door, second beat he'd gripped the doorknob and banged the door wide open with both hands, the third beat all senses stunted as he raced to the scene: a clown hovering over his baby brother's motionless body; a supremely fat woman using her entire weight to keep Sam forced down against the floor, a leather belt lodged in Sam's hanging mouth.

Dean was closest to the man, whose back was facing him. Claire saw him, though: she looked up just as he charged at them in a quiet rage.

"Pastor!" Claire screamed, and the man turned just in time to receive the blow Dean had wound up – perfect timing. The punch was thorough, and before the man could fall, Dean silently grasped him under the arms and ripped him from his position, sending the pastor into near flight away from Sam's limp body.

"Holy mother of God!" The woman squealed as she witnessed the violence.

"GET AWAY FROM HIM!" Dean shouted as he turned away from the pastor and started in towards the woman. Claire scrambled up and away in fear and Dean didn't waste time. He saw Claire back away and turned down to reach for Sam, falling to the floor on his brother's side.

Sam was still; too still, and Dean stared at his worst nightmare with blown pupils. First things first, he gently but urgently lifted the belt out and away from Sam's face; he inhaled a cringe of pain, disturbed by the indentations on Sam's face from how tight they must have kept it against his jaw.

Dean leaned down, pressing his ear to Sam's mouth to hear breathing; at the same time, he pushed his index and middle fingers straight into Sam's neck to feel for a pulse.

Pulse was weak but there; breathing raspy and labored.

"Sam! Sammy!?" He gasped as he rose up and turned the boy on his side, holding his head above the floor. "Sam?" Dean's voice cracked as he used his finger to clear saliva out of Sam's mouth. Dean choked sobs when he saw blood pour from Sam's lips. Dean grasped Sam's hands, blinking away tears as he scrutinized the nails.

"Fuck, Sammy," he cried, his voice high-pitched in fear as he spotted a blue tinge in his brother's nail beds. "CALL 9-1-1!" Dean screamed desperately at Claire, who was still stunned, staring dumbly at them. The woman jerked at Dean's voice, stumbled up and ran away from him.

Nearly hyperventilating himself, Dean laid Sam out on his left side; right knee bent; left leg out; head resting on left arm; right arm bent at chest. Dean kept his fingers on Sam's pulse, monitoring its thready rhythm. He moved his knee over Sam's body to the floor on the other side and bent down to hover over the boy, lightly rubbing Sam's back and chest, keeping constant watch over Sam's face.

"C'mon Sammy, breathe, c'mon," Dean coaxed. He tilted Sam's head closer to the floor and tried to help gravity clear the boy's airway again with his finger. "Sammy, you can do it, Sam, just breathe, just keep breathing," he whispered tearfully.

It felt like eternity to Dean as he watched over his brother's body as it struggled to recover. Sam's chest would lift and catch, but he was still relatively warm – and Dean kept rubbing, inwardly hoping it'd help circulation or his heart to beat stronger or something.

"Sammy just hold on… Just stay with me," Dean murmured again, his voice pitched again as he sniffed a few times over his brother's body.

Dean noticed the bruising on Sam's wrists; the rising bump on the back of the boy's head. He heard a few quick-paced footsteps around him and a gasp.

"Dean-! Oh my god!" Brianna said, covering her mouth in shock. Dean's silent tears fell over Sam.

"He's got epilepsy," Dean barely managed to say, "– are the paramedics coming?" He asked shakily.

"Y-yeah, Dean, they are, I heard Claire call them," Brianna whispered meaningfully.

Dean sniffed and nodded, unable to take his eyes off his brother.

"He's stabilized," were the best words Dean had ever heard in his entire life. Spoken to him by a paramedic before they rolled into the E.R. bay.

Wrecked, Dean could barely hold it together in the hospital's waiting room, standing in front of the doctor that had just repeated the same statement with final authority.

Dean's eyes watered as he looked down at the ground, his arms clasped tightly around his body, nodding to the sounds of the doctor's continued reassurances. He inhaled.

"Ah..." He started, then stopped. "Ahm," his voice trembled as he tried to make words. He stopped and coughed to get the shakes out of his vocal chords and looked up, blinking his eyes wide. "When's he gonna wake up?" Dean almost shouted, overcompensating.

"His breathing's back to normal, heart rate solid. Any time, now, Dean," the doctor said kindly. Dean nodded, another wave of relief raging over his comedown from adrenaline. He knew he was going to have difficulty with the next question.

"Can I-" Dean got out, but stopped there, his eyes enough to finish the sentence. The doctor nodded sympathetically.

"Follow me, c'mon," she said softly, and turned to lead Dean to the room.

Sam opened his eyes, reaching consciousness, exactly forty-three minutes from the time he'd clocked out.

Groggy, his irises rolled the first couple of times he tried to focus, but slowly shapes and colors made themselves known. Cracked light blue paint on the walls; beeping monitors, and something covering his mouth and nose: strapped lightly onto his face.

The monitor's beep hit a higher rhythm in tandem to Sam's growing realization that he was in a hospital room. He lifted his hand up, trying for the strength to rip the thing off his face, but as he did so, something soft pressured it down – Dean's hand. Recognizing the feel, Sam searched as best as he could, trying to blink off the blur, when he finally saw Dean. His big brother leaned over Sam, whispering, "Hey Sammy!" with a meak voice.

Sam felt him sit down on the bed right next to him and Dean's face swam into better view as he hovered closer. Sam noticed the pallor of Dean's face; sore eyes. The genuine fear and worry in Dean's expression didn't bode well, either. Sam's brows furrowed and he opened his mouth to speak.

"SH!" Dean shushed vehemently, seriously, then lightened up when Sam stopped, his eyes communicating perfectly to Dean the alarm and confusion he was feeling as a result of Dean's behavior. "Just- Don't try to talk just yet, Sammy," Dean whispered as he stroked Sam's hair. "Just… Do the blinking thing, okay?" Dean offered, trying to sound airy but failing. Sam, unnerved, shook his head no, wanting to talk. Unsteady and disoriented, Dean's exaggerated comfort was fraying him.

"Hey, no, c'mon, Sammy, it's okay, it's fine," Dean tried to reassure, but his voice wavered and Sam shook his head again in desperation, really scared. Sam felt tears welling up and he didn't even know why. Dean was a mess and Sam was only taking cues from him.

Dean gently framed the side of Sam's face with his hand.

"Hey hey hey Sammy shh… It's okay now, you're okay," Dean said softly, nodding his head and widening his eyes with expectation. Sam swallowed under the oxygen mask, staring trustfully up at his brother.

"That's it, good, relax," Dean whispered, going back to brushing Sam's hair. Sam blinked slowly, keeping his gaze locked on Dean. "Good job, just breathe. You've done so good, Sammy," Dean praised, looking into Sam's eyes with pure affection. Sam nodded slowly and Dean gave a grimace of a smile as a tear broke forth from an eye. Dean sniffed and gave a small laugh at it, turning his head down for a second. Sam immediately reached out to his brother; needing Dean to be okay. Dean found and held Sam's hand, resting it against his chest.

"Sorry, I'm sorry kiddo, you just… Gave me a scare," Dean barely contained the cry in his laugh as he blinked. Sam tensed with guilt. He made a fist with his free hand and moved it over his chest in a circle. It was the sign for, 'I'm sorry.'

Dean noticed the movement and glanced over to see the sign. He gave a wet laugh.

"No, it's not your fault," Dean said thickly, but firmly. He grasped Sam's hand a little tighter as he leaned back over Sam. Sam's eyes were glued to Dean, so ashamed but still dependent on Dean's words. "You hear me? This wasn't your fault. It's never your fault, okay?"

Sam nodded sadly. Dean sniffed, nodding back.

"Ah, okay, good," he whispered, wiping his eye tiredly. "You gotta sleep," he said wearily. Sam's forehead knitted, and he shook his head.

"What?"

Sam tried to squeeze Dean's hand as he widened his eyes at his brother; it wasn't much, but Dean understood. He winced and tilted his head.

"You think you're up for it?"

Sam nodded.

"'Kay. Dad'll be by with the Impala in about ten minutes. We'll have him talk to the doctor; see if we can't take you home."

Sam nodded, accidentally dislodging a tear that rolled down the side of his face.

"Hey," Dean whispered, "You're okay and this is not your fault, okay?"

Sam nodded, his breath shaky, as Dean resumed lightly carding his fingers through Sam's hair. Sam blinked once, then twice; the second time slower than the last. Dean could always put him to sleep, but Sam was scared; he wanted Dean to be okay, so he fought to keep his eyes open. Dean noticed and leaned down to kiss Sam on his temple, then whispered into his ear.

"Sammy go to sleep," he leaned back to see Sam's eyes still barely open, "Close your eyes," Dean ordered softly, "I'll be right here when you wake up. Right next to you," he promised. Sam finally gave a slight nod and closed his eyes.

Dean walked out of Sam's room to grab some water when he saw his father speaking with the nurses at the desk down the hall. He stopped for a moment, a lump in his throat forming when his Dad turned and spotted him. Dean resumed his walk, and at each step it felt like the weight of what he had happened and whose fault it was bore down on him harder and harder until he was a few feet away and managed to say, "I'm so sorry, Dad." He broke into tears as he kept walking, reaching his father's open arms.

John was silent and just held his eldest tightly, rubbing his back every once in awhile as Dean tried to calm down in his father's arms.

"It's not your fault, Dean," John whispered, and Dean couldn't help but notice the line he'd just given his brother. He fell for it just as Sam had, though. "I don't blame you, Dean. It's not your fault," John repeated. Soon, Dean released his hold from John, and John appraised his eldest's appearance: exhausted, pale, and pulled in on himself, John hadn't seen Dean look so vulnerable in years.

Dean was shaking his head and little.

"They were just people," he whispered, then looked up at John. John nodded and tilted his head in sympathy.

"Yeah, Dean, they were just people."

"They almost killed Sam," Dean gulped, on the brink of tears again. John sighed and pulled Dean in for another hug, which Dean embraced, grasping his father's back with open hands.

John put his hand on the back of Dean's head and tilted to whisper into his ear.

"Dean, you saved Sam's life, okay? You did good," John assured his unraveled son. Dean nodded in the crook of John's neck, sighed slowly as he repeated John's words in his head. He tightened his grip one last time before letting go, blinking tears away as he tried to rebuild his strength, attempting a small smile for his father.

He'd been on time; he'd saved Sam. He hadn't failed, and he'd never fail.

About two hours later, Sam woke up again to the sight of his brother and father's smiles. John looked worried, but generally not nearly as unhinged as Dean had been. Dean seemed better, too. He stood by the window; John was by the door of the room.

"Hey," Sam rasped. The oxygen mask was off. John approached and hovered over Sam.

"Hey bud, how you feeling?" He murmured. Sam shrugged, then glanced at Dean, who gave him an encouraging nod.

"I'm good," Sam replied, realizing that he did feel better than he had when he'd woken up with Dean.

"You still want to go home? Or is it okay if they keep you overnight?" John tilted his head in sympathy as he spoke.

"No I wanna come home," Sam whispered, his voice raw from sleep. For some reason, his tongue and jaw hurt. Sam felt around in his mouth and realized that he must've bitten the back right quadrant of his tongue during the seizure. He couldn't figure why his jaw hurt, though. He squinted in confusion, moving his jaw around to test his boundaries. He could only open his mouth so far before it started to hurt.

"All right kiddo, so, I talked to the doctors. They said you're fine to be released. We just gotta take care of you, okay?" John explained gently. Sam nodded, a spark of excitement flaring that he wouldn't have to stay in the hospital any longer.

"Okay-" John said as he turned and gestured to someone outside. An attendant walked in with a wheelchair, just like last time, when Sam had been diagnosed. Sam rolled his eyes.

"I can walk," he murmured, moving to get up.

Dean was there in a flash.

"Stop stop stop, hold on, Sam," Dean pressed him down for a second.

"Dean…" Sam whined a little, looking up and noticing the renewed concern and anxiety in his brother's eyes. "What?"

"You're gonna be really sore for this, okay? I just… Let us help you, okay?" Dean replied sincerely. Sam squinted and gulped, then nodded.

"'Kay, Dean," he whispered in a small voice.

"Kay, c'mon," Dean moved his hands from Sam's chest to under his shoulders and waited for Sam to push up.

Sam was ready to show Dean that he wasn't as sore or hurt as Dean said he was. It had been a seizure: seizures don't normally injure you if you're in a safe place – and Sam had fallen down in the middle of the food area at Plucky's, not a floor of glass. Resolved, Sam pushed himself up in bed.

Pain burst through Sam's spine.

"Holy… shit…" Sam gasped. He almost slumped back down in bed if it hadn't been for Dean still holding him up.

"Dean-" John came around to Sam's other side, spotting them.

"I got 'im – I gotchya, Sam…," Dean tightened his grip and pulled Sam forward. Sam's eyes screwed shut, battling the pain of a severely bruised spine and chest.

"-The hell," Sam breathed hoarsely, his head resting on Dean's shoulder, "Happened – to me?" He asked.

"I told you," Dean insisted, referring to his warning that Sam was going to be sore. Dean glanced at John. "Dad, you want to bring the Impala around? I got Sam," Dean suggested, giving Sam time to breathe through the shock of the pain.

"You sure?" John checked.

"Yeah," Dean gave John a small smile and rubbed Sam's back. "I got this." John nodded slowly.

"Okay I'll see you two at the front in two minutes, yeah?"

Sam couldn't see John, as he was still faced over Dean's shoulder, but both of them replied in the affirmative. John couldn't help but give a small smile at that.

"Okay sounds good," John said as his goodbye, and stepped away to leave to leave.

"Okay, c'mon, Sammy," Dean murmured as he heard their father step into the hall and disappear. He angled Sam so he could move his legs over the hospital bed. "Can you stand?" Dean asked. Sam nodded.

"Yeah," he mumbled, then pushed off the bed. Again, Dean had him under the arms to make sure he'd land lightly on the floor. He twisted Sam around and set him down in the wheelchair. Looking up, he gave a smile to the attendant, who smiled back, and, understanding, stepped back to let Dean take the handles.

Dean navigated them through the halls of the hospital easily and arrived outside the lobby quickly. The Impala wasn't there, so Dean clicked the brakes on the wheelchair, and crouched next to Sam as they waited for John to pull up. Sam turned his head in Dean's direction, but didn't look him in the eye.

"Dean," Sam murmured. Dean turned to look at his brother.

"Yeah?" Dean mimicked Sam's low volume.

Sam moved around in his seat on the wheelchair.

"It hurts to sit," Sam whispered sheepishly. Dean tilted his head to try to get Sam to look at him.

"I know, I'm sorry. We'll get you lying down in the car. The doctors said you bruised your tailbone – so that's what's happening."

"Oh," Sam looked up, uncertain, at Dean. Dean gave him a small, but reassuring smile. Sam smiled back. "Okay."

A few moments passed and Dean took Sam's hand in his.

"Hey, Sam, if anything else hurts, you tell me, okay? Me or Dad. But tell us, okay? No matter how embarrassing it might be. Always," Dean added. Sam quirked a smile and looked at Dean, nodding.

"Okay."

"Okay." Dean smiled and ruffled Sam's hair gently.

The Impala pulled up in front of them and Dean stood up. The car idled as John got out and walked around the car.

"Okay ready?"

"Yup," Dean replied. John looked Sam over.

"Yeah," Sam nodded to his father as Dean walked over and opened the back door to the Impala. John wheeled the wheelchair closely and before Dean or John could help, Sam had already gotten himself up and into the back seat without their help. He settled himself behind the driver's seat, sitting up and hunched over a little bit, but overall looking fine.

"Wow, good job, Sam," John chuckled, loving the strikingly independent streak in his youngest. He pulled the now-empty wheelchair back from the car and turned around, pushing it towards the attendant who stood by waiting to retrieve it.

John turned around and his eyes widened slightly in surprise.

"Not sitting up front?" John asked casually as he saw Dean bending into the backseat, talking to Sam, then kneeling in to sit next to him. Dean looked out from the backseat, sitting behind the passenger seat he normally took, to respond to his father.

"Not this time, s'it okay?" Dean replied back easily as John approached the open backseat door and leaned in.

"'Course," John said, genuinely smiling as he shut the door for them. It was the first time in years that he had seen Dean in the backseat.

The car door shut next to Dean and he got settled in the passenger seat. He'd been telling Sam to lie down in the back, but Sam kept insisting that he was fine, so Dean had decided to stay in the back with Sam. Yes, Dean understood Sam had an independent streak, and yes, he was more privy to the downsides of this particular trait than their father.

John got in the driver's seat and turned around.

"Ready?"

"Yeah," both boys chimed. John started the ignition and drove out of the driveway. He took a turn into the parking lot, then hit the speed hump on the way out of the lot and into the street.

The Impala was their home, but the suspension left much to be desired. At the speed hump, Sam leaned forward slowly, trying to hide it from Dean, and angled himself off his tailbone by leaning against the window. He sensed Dean come closer next to him and then an arm wrapped around his shoulders.

"Sammy, c'mon, lie down," Dean whispered, gently pulling Sam over to him.

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam said lightly, but Dean's consistent pulling eventually won him over. He leaned against Dean's chest.

"'Kay," Dean murmured, "Hold on two secs," he said, suddenly gripping Sam again under the shoulders.

"Ah, Dean-" Sam started to complain tiredly as he anticipated Dean was going to move him; he really wasn't interested in getting jostled.

In two seconds flat, though, Sam found himself laid out on the back seat against Dean's chest. Dean had used his feet to brace him and pulled Sam back along the seat bench. His big brother was now leaning against the door on his side, Sam lying securely against him.

"Oh-" Sam murmured in surprise. "That was fast," he said flatly, but still impressed.

"I know; I'm awesome," Dean replied self-assuredly as he got situated, resting one arm across Sam's chest, the other one grabbing a blanket and stuffing it behind his head so it wouldn't hit the window. Sam put his arm over Dean's and settled in, comfortable.

"Hey Dad?" Dean piped up. Sam could feel the reverberation of Dean's voice against his head and back.

"Yeah, what's up?"

"How long is it to the motel?"

As John drove, Sam watched the yellow lights of the highway shaft in and out, lighting up the interior of the car, then going away just as fast. It was a familiar sight - one that, in later years, would serve as nostalgic. With Dean holding him, he felt peaceful and safe. His eyelids started to droop as he gazed, his focus idly landing on the little army man he'd stuck in the ashtray. At every streetlight, its features would light up as yellow, then fade back to dark green until the next one.

"Um, it'll take 'bout half an hour, I think," John shook his open hand back and forth for Dean to see, gesturing it was an approximation. Sam felt Dean nod and resettled himself a little bit underneath him.

"Sam you gonna fall asleep? We got awhile," Dean suggested more than asked. Sam vaguely shook his head against Dean's chest.

"Nuh," Sam sighed, and pushed himself up higher against Dean. Dean made room for him, letting Sam come up closer to his shoulder. Dean sighed, too.

"Okay," he replied lightly, and simply wrapped his other arm around Sam. Sam moved in kind, putting both of his arms over Dean's. Completely at rest, the two of them started to doze in silence.

After thirty-five minutes, John rolled into the rundown motel they were calling their home at the time. He'd come to the conclusion that, demon possession or no, this location was no place for Sam. They'd leave as soon as possible and either John would find a new hunt or, if he thought they could handle it, he'd come back himself and see the case through.

These were his thoughts as he'd driven home, not minding the silence. He recalled the days when his boys were both consistently relegated to the backseat; John had thought of the two of them back there as his priceless cargo.

But when Dean had started sitting up front, he'd had more opportunity to ask him questions that John wouldn't have answered had Sam been listening. Dean was so enthusiastic, though: absorbing John's advice and explanations like a sponge, and surprisingly fearless in the face of everything John told him.

It had made John so proud, and still did. But sometimes, times like these, he felt that Dean could maybe have done without so much information; that he maybe should've made Dean stay in the proverbial backseat a little longer.

John parked in front of their motel room and killed the engine. He turned around to look at his boys in the back. He couldn't help but snicker at the sight.

One leg bent against the seatback, the other falling into the seat wells, Dean had Sam up against him, both arms loosely but securely wrapped around his little brother. Sam had turned himself around in his sleep to face the seatback on Dean's left shoulder, so John could only see his youngest's mop of messy, tangled hair resting just below Dean's neck.

Dean's head, on the other hand, had fallen back against the window. His eyes were shut closed and his mouth wide open in a deep sleep.

A thought occurred to John and immediately he turned to search the glove compartment. Finding the disposable camera they'd had for ages, John wound the reel up, hoping it wouldn't disturb them, readied the flash, held still to frame Dean's expression straight and center (making sure to keep Sam in frame, as well), and snapped the shot.

The flash lit up the entire car and Dean snorted awake, jostling Sam, which, in an automatic chain reaction, got them both awake and moving around.

"Ah, wha was 'at?" Dean asked, annoyed, moving his arm up to rub his eyes. John laughed, surreptitiously putting the camera back into the glove compartment.

"We're here, guys," he informed, and when he looked into the backseat again, Sam had already lifted up and disentangled himself from Dean's hold. He blinked at his father dully, then tilted his head to the side.

"Did you take a picture of us?" Sam asked suspiciously. John laughed again and got out of the car, hearing Dean's shout behind him.

"Not funny, Dad! That's not getting developed!"