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Sam Winchester was uncomfortable.

He had been sitting – squatting – behind the fallen tree forever.

Well, maybe it was only an hour.

But the little niche which had looked so promising had not been designed for a sixteen-year-old who had recently shot up five inches. Sam had to glance down to check whether his legs were still attached; crouching in the same position for so long had sent them to sleep.

It didn't help that his jeans were thoroughly wet. It wasn't cold, but the unexpected rain storm which had passed over earlier that day had left puddles everywhere, and one had coyly concealed itself in the very place in which Sam had chosen to hide.

Of course he hadn't noticed it until he was ankle-deep in sludge.

He glanced across the clearing. Dean was nowhere in sight. Sam knew where he was, but only because he had watched his brother slip into the hiding place. Dean was a master of camouflage. Sam guessed that he himself was more visible, but then he had the more versatile weapon; armed with the shotgun, it was his job to incapacitate the harpy so that Dean could get close enough to stab her with the silver knife.

For a moment Sam wanted to call across to Dean, to shatter the hush with some inane comment. Sam contemplated the idea, and then imagined Dean's reaction, and decided to remain silent. Harpies had very acute hearing. Dean would be furious if Sam warned off their prey because he felt lonely.

No... not lonely, exactly. That 'ud be a bit stupid, with Dean right across the clearing.

Sam chewed his lip reflectively. Now was not the time to deal with disagreements. They were here to ambush and kill the harpy, and his attention should be focused on that. But he didn't like going into a hunt with unresolved issues between him and Dean. He was only too aware of how quickly things could go pear-shaped, and he knew that if something happened to Dean when they were still angry with each other he would never be able to forgive himself.

He grimaced at the thought of Dean's reaction were Sam to share that thought with him. Dean – the crusader against all things emo and chick-flick. Dean didn't understand Sam's need to talk through everything. Dean got angry; he stomped around and swore and locked Sam out of their bedroom, and then after a time he cooled down and things were fine again.

That just wasn't enough for Sam.

As usual, this hadn't started as Dean's fight. As usual, he'd been the unwilling spectator, trying unsuccessfully to keep the peace as Sam and their father exploded into yet another of their all too frequent shouting matches. It had only been afterwards, as Dean and Sam drove away from the motel to pursue this hunt, that Dean had spoken. And Sam had been a little shocked and more than a little angry to discover that Dean agreed with their father.

"Dad's right." Dean's eyes had been fixed on the road as he spoke, his shoulders taut. He must have felt Sam's startled and indignant gaze, but he didn't look across at his brother. "You need to get more focused. It's dangerous -"

"You're backing Dad up?! Dean, I -"

Sam saw Dean's mouth tighten.

"Look Sam, I know you're a good hunter, and I know you can do the job. It's just that school and this stuff don't mix, man. You can't be doing calculus in your head while a werewolf is coming at you."

"I don't... I don't do calculus in my head... ugh!" Sam gritted his teeth in frustration. "It's just so unfair, Dean! That last time, with the chupacabra? I had a math midterm the next day! Dad knew because I told him three times and he still made me come, and then all I did was hold the weapons duffel! He doesn't care, Dean, he just doesn't care about the things that are important to me -"

"Yeah, well, Sam, do you care about the things that are important to him?" For the first time Dean glanced across, and Sam saw the bleakness of his gaze. His breath caught, anger and hurt and confusion warring tumultuously within him, and for a moment he was silent.

"The things that are important to Dad are the only things that are important to this family," he said at last. "Only the hunt matters. Nothing else, ever."

"Sam -"

"I think one of us could be dying and he wouldn't even notice unless it meant we couldn't pull a trigger or recite a ritual. Oh, wait. Let me rephrase. I could be dying. He would notice if it was you. You're useful. You're a good hunter. I'm not, I -"

"Sam!" Dean's voice cut through the rising tide of bitterness. He had turned his gaze back to the road, but Sam could see by the way his jaw clenched and unclenched that he was angry. "Just... don't, okay?"

"Fine." The monosyllable was curt, bitten-off, expressing Sam's resentment more eloquently than any speech. He hunched his shoulder, turning away from Dean to stare sullenly out at the passing landscape.

"Unfocused... distractible..." His father's words came back to him now, as he crouched in the uncomfortable undergrowth. "If you don't get your head in the game, Sam, you're a liability. You could put someone's life in danger..."

Sam shifted, and scowled as the movement sent muddy wavelets into his sneakers.

Someone.

Huh.

You mean your life, Dad. Or Dean's.

Obviously. Who'd care about the liability?

Sometimes his father made him so mad, he wanted to... to...

Why doesn't he get it?

It's not that I don't want to hunt ever. It's just... why can't I do a few normal things?

He never lets me do anything I want to...

Why can't he be proud of me the way I am, what I do?

Sam felt a suspicious thickening in his throat.

I am not going to cry.

Emo girl.

At least Dad isn't here to see me losing it – then he'd really think I was weak.

That was the one bright spot in this otherwise sucking-out-loud day: their father was occupied with a particularly tenacious poltergeist in the neighbouring town. Sam didn't think he would have been able to handle his father's critical eye on this hunt, not with John Winchester's censorious words from earlier already looping in his head.

"Get your head in the game, Sam."

"You could put someone's life in danger."

And the knock-out: "I'm not having you whining and complaining when you get yourself hurt because of your carelessness. It'll be no more than you deserve."

I don't whine and complain!

The anger bubbled up again, but it couldn't drown out the hurt.

I'm not careless. I don't get distracted. That time with the chupacabra, I could have gone to sleep and it would have made no difference to the hunt.

And when has it been my fault that anyone got hurt, ever?

It was Dean that time with the shtriga –

Here Sam's thoughts pulled up short.

Even in his frustration he didn't blame Dean for that. Dean blamed himself enough for both of them.

But the fact remained that despite that incident, their father would never haul Dean over the coals the way he had Sam.

I wish Dad would trust me. I wish he trusted me on hunts.

I wish he trusted me to know what I want to do with my life.

He hadn't wanted to come on this hunt. He had a history assignment due Monday and Jude the Obscure to read for English. Thomas Hardy wasn't his favourite author by any means, but he beat sitting around in puddles waiting for bird-woman monsters. And the harpy wasn't doing so much damage that she couldn't have waited until Dad returned from the poltergeist.

Odds are that she won't even pitch up. Then all we'll have to show for this is more dirty clothes. And probably colds all round, just so the day can be really special. Not that that would bother Dad – he'd rather I was getting wet and wasting time, on a hunt, than actually accomplishing something that I want to do.

I'm going to have to work all tomorrow to get through my homework.

And this is such a stupid hunt. Dean could even do it by himself.

He looked irritably down at his sodden sneakers.

Maybe it's a good thing I can't feel my feet. Wet clingy socks are the absolute –

"Sam!"

Dean's yell jerked him violently from his grumpy abstraction. He had a split second impression of feathers and vicious claws hideously merged with a female head and torso as the harpy bore down on him. Then he was fumbling with the shotgun which dangled limply in one hand, seeing he wasn't going to have time to bring it up, scrambling to get away before those claws got to him. His numb legs buckled under him as he moved, and he fell, sprawling heavily across the tree trunk.

Winded, he lay unmoving, knowing that the harpy was almost upon him but unable to escape. His shoulders curled in an instinctive but utterly useless attempt to protect himself. Those claws would shred his flesh... rip muscle from bone...

He heard Dean shout something, and managed to lift his head in time to see the older Winchester lunge forward, silver knife in hand. Sam had no idea whether he reached her. For a moment there was a blur of movement as the harpy whirled to face this new threat. Sam struggled to rise, hating the odds of unimpeded claws against knife, and managed to get a firm grip on the shotgun, but he wasn't quick enough.

"Dean!"

Sam's yell almost drowned out Dean's pained grunt as the harpy flung him back. But he heard the dull thud as Dean hit a tree on the other side of the clearing, and he stood petrified for an instant as he saw his brother slide down the trunk into a crumpled heap on the ground.

No... Dean!

The cruel eyes flashed a glance in his direction before turning back towards Dean, and Sam could see her intent. Her fallen enemy... Dean was an easy target. He wasn't moving. Sam had a momentary nightmare image of what the monster would do to his brother, and he acted without thinking.

Somehow, without being aware that he'd moved, he was between the harpy and her prey, shotgun raised.

"Stay away from my brother, bitch!"

His finger jerked on the trigger, and she staggered back, screaming in rage and pain as the bullet found its mark.

The shotgun wasn't going to kill her. The bullets were more a distraction than anything else. Even as she stumbled Sam was looking frantically around for the knife that Dean had carried. She sprang at him again and he pulled off another shot, not aiming at all but knowing from the shriek that the bullet had found its mark. Then a gleam of silver caught his gaze and he threw himself sideways and snatched up the knife.

The movement left Dean momentarily unprotected, and the harpy pounced.

Yelling something incoherent, Sam hurled himself off the ground, knife upraised. He had no idea where the weapon hit her. All he knew was that Dean was in imminent danger of being torn apart and he had no time to be strategic. He felt the blade sink deep; the harpy screeched, rearing back, and he impaled her again, this time in the heart.

Her cry altered as the silver did its work. A violent shudder went through her and her voice rose in an unearthly scream. Then she slumped down, her limp body falling on top of Dean's and covering him from Sam's view.

Sam knew he had to burn the body. He had to remove the knife and clean it. But at that moment the correct protocol was the last thing on his mind. He dragged the bloodied body away and let it fall unceremoniously to the ground, before dropping to his knees beside Dean.

He had thought that his uncomfortable crouched position earlier had only deadened his legs. Now he found that the horrible numbness encompassed his whole body. He felt frozen, terrified; his hands were shaking. Dean was so white, so utterly still.

Nonononononono....

Sam could still hear the appalling thud of Dean's body colliding with the tree. He couldn't have come away from that unscathed. There must be broken bones... concussion... skull fracture... Dean could be... could be...

Pleasebeokaypleasebeokay...

"Dean... Dean, please wake up..." He hated the way his voice quivered. His fingers quivered even more as he fumbled with his brother's wrist, seeking a pulse. This was his nightmare, exactly what he'd feared. He'd been scared that something would happen to Dean before they could deal with their argument, and now it had.

This is my fault.

The thought hit him with sledge-hammer force, and he reeled mentally.

This is my fault. I was distracted, and Dean got hurt.

I was so busy thinking about Dad that I missed the harpy.

I should have seen her coming, and shot her, but I didn't notice her.

Dean jumped her to save me.

It's my fault. It's my fault. It's all my fault.

"I'm sorry, Dean... I'm sorry... I'm sorry..." His fingers tightened around the limp wrist.

A steady heartbeat thudded under his fingertips, and his breath broke from him in what was almost a sob.

Dean was alive.

His pulse was a little fast, but strong and regular.

For a moment Sam crouched without moving, clutching his brother's wrist and staring down at Dean's unconscious face.

He's alive. He's alive.

It was almost as if the relief unlocked the emotion that he hadn't allowed himself to indulge in. He found that he was crying, tears slipping unchecked down his face and falling wetly onto his sweater.

Dean would be horrified.

Dean would never let himself fall apart like this.

Dad would –

At the thought of their father a shiver passed through him.

This was exactly what John Winchester had predicted.

This was what they'd argued about: Sam getting distracted, letting his thoughts wander, not concentrating on the hunt – and someone getting hurt.

I was so angry that he'd think that would happen. I was so upset with him, that he'd think I could do that.

And I just did.

Dad is going to be so mad.

He's never ever going to forgive me.

Dad will never trust me after this.

It confirms everything he's ever thought about me.

And he's right. I'm a liability on the hunt. If I hadn't been here, Dean wouldn't have got hurt trying to save me.

Angrily he swiped at his wet face with his free hand. Now wasn't the time to cry and feel sorry for himself. He'd got Dean into this situation, had been stupid and careless and got his brother hurt, and now it was up to him to sort things out. Dad was too far away to help. Sam was on his own.

He ran his gaze along the crumpled figure of his brother. Dean had fallen awkwardly on his side, with his arms and legs sprawled like a discarded rag doll. His head tilted down, one cheek pressed against the leafy carpet of the forest floor. Blood trickled from the side of his head, where a swelling bruise was already visible. At the sight Sam's insides lurched sickeningly.

He must have hit his head on the tree.

Again Sam heard the echo of Dean landing against the tree. His fingers shifted unconsciously on Dean's wrist, feeling the reassuring thud of his pulse. Surely it wouldn't be that strong – that regular – if there was something seriously wrong. If he was... if he was... not going to make it. He reached out and gently touched the bruised area.

Dean's chest rose and fell. Deep, steady breaths stirred the dead leaves near his slackly open mouth. If it hadn't been for the blood, the bruise, the peculiar unnatural way he was lying, he would have appeared to be merely sleeping. Sam put his arm down and very carefully ran his hands over his brother's limbs.

There didn't seem to be any broken bones. Nothing was grotesquely out of place. There were no blood-sodden patches on his clothing. Sam knew there could be internal injuries, broken ribs, damaged organs, but the steadiness of Dean's pulse and breathing suggested that he wasn't about to die of a punctured lung, or internal bleeding.

He was just unconscious.

It wasn't cold, but Sam pulled off his jacket and tucked it round his brother anyway. Shock was an unpredictable thing.

I got you hurt... I'm not going to mess things up further.

He glanced across at the body of the harpy, for the first time remembering its existence. He didn't want to leave Dean, but at some stage he had to burn it. He looked down at Dean again and decided that he might as well do it now. He was going to have to move his brother eventually, but maybe if he waited a little, Dean would wake up. Even if he wasn't ready to run the Boston marathon, he might be able to walk to the car with Sam's help.

Sam didn't want to think about what he'd do if Dean remained unconscious. Dean was over six foot, and bulky to match. All the extra inches that Sam had put on over the last year had been upwards – he was just not big enough to carry his brother.

Sam swallowed.

I'm sorry, bro...

Dean always carried the lighter for burning corpses. Sam slid his hand into the pocket of Dean's jacket and retrieved it, before scrambling to his feet.

The flare of pain across his midriff was completely unexpected, and sharp enough to jerk a cry from him. He bent forward, wrapping one arm protectively around his abdomen and breathing deeply.

What... how... I didn't hurt myself, did I?

He straightened cautiously, relieved when the pain subsided to a dull ache, and lifted his sweater.

A broad reddened area discoloured his torso, from just below his sternum. Already the skin was purpling in places as bruises spread.

What the hell!

Oh... yeah.

In the adrenalin- and fear-fuelled rush of activity, he had forgotten the inelegant dive he had taken across the fallen tree trunk. Now he came to think of it, he had landed pretty hard. He could remember being winded.

That was why I couldn't move. That was why Dean had to –

He jerked a little at the thought, and winced as the movement pulled on bruised muscles.

Bruises I can handle, but I really hope I haven't cracked a rib. That would be just fan-friggin-tastic.

The pain wasn't that bad, though. It hurt, but not with the stabbing agony that suggested broken ribs. It looked as if he was going to get away with it, although he'd be pretty sore for a few days.

His teeth came together.

I guess that's less than I deserve, anyway. I screwed up, and Dean got hurt.

It's only fair that I should suffer too.

He looked down at the sprawled figure of his brother and his mouth went tight.

I should be the only one to suffer. Not Dean, who was trying to protect me.

Ignoring the twinges, he strode across to the dead harpy and set about burning the corpse.

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