oOoOoOo

Ghosts and monsters didn't scare Sam. Even the demon trials, although daunting and intimidating, did not individually scare him.

Only two things scared Sam Winchester: letting his brother down and losing him.

He had done both before and did not think he could face either again. He lost Dean to Hell on a deal brokered to save Sam's life. He fought hard to find a way to get Dean out of that deal and back once it came to fruition, but he failed, leaving his brother to suffer months of unspeakable torture that passed more like years in the pit and finally pushed Dean to become the torturer. Next, he lost Dean to Purgatory and failed him by not even trying to find him.

"Maybe this is the way it should be," Sam said dejectedly as he folded his hands under his chin and closed his eyes.

He was startled at hearing Garth respond to him from the other side of the hospital room. Sam looked up, unaware the hunter had returned following his departure an hour earlier with Bill.

"What do you mean?" Garth asked.

"Just that he's always putting himself in front of the bullet; throwing himself at the monster," Sam shook his head. "My whole life it's like he has a death wish."

Garth cocked his head to the side and blinked several times in confusion. He shook his head and offered Sam a puzzled expression.

"Dean doesn't have a death wish," Garth disagreed. "Now, I haven't known Dean my whole life like you have, but I've gotten to know him in the last couple years, and even before I met him, I heard about him from Bobby. One thing I am certain of is that Dean wants to live. He's just… he's prepared if he doesn't. Dying doesn't scare him the way…"

"The way it should?" Sam ventured. "Because he really doesn't care about himself or what him dying would do to anyone else?"

His brother's lack of care for his own wellbeing was one of Sam's persistent fears. The one bit of solace he had in thinking Dean was dead during the year he was in Purgatory was that at least it was over. There was no more wondering or waiting for that terrible day when Dean would push too hard, go too far, be just a quarter step slower than the monster and finally meet his end.

"No, that's not it at all," Garth shook his head vigorously. "He cares, Sam. He cares too much, I think. He cares for the people you both protect and save, and he cares about..."

"I wish he cared that much for himself," Sam said through clenched jaws as tears burned hot in the corners of his eyes.

"Only so much one man can do," Garth shrugged. "Only so much one heart can love. Dean's, maybe his is just all doled out to others so there isn't any left for him. It's not a bad thing."

"If you're the 'everyone else,' it's not a bad thing," Sam grimaced. "If you're... I mean what about…

"You?" Garth offered with sympathetic eyes. "Sam, you know you come first with him, always. He loves you most of all. You're his baby brother. Without you, his life doesn't make any sense to him."

"Yeah, well, I don't know if I can take it much more of these suicidal stunts," Sam said in a shaky voice as he ground the heels of his hands into his tired eyes. "The reason I stepped up to do the trials and wouldn't let him is because he was going to do it and kill himself. This form of suicide was just…"

"Wait, suicide?" Garth interrupted. "Sam, Dean's not suicidal. Not even close. He's not trying to kill himself. I mean, well, yeah, okay, this time he was with the plan to draw out the Loa, but he sort of had to."

"No, he didn't," Sam snapped. "Garth, this is what he always does—takes stupid chances because he doesn't care if he makes it out alive. If he would have just trusted me, but instead, he did what he what he always does. He decided that he knew best and did whatever he wanted without any thought about the consequences."

"Seems to be a family trait," Garth said, placing his hand on Sam's shoulder comfortingly. "He felt like he had to do this, Sam. In the end, it was about saving his neck so he could stick around to protect you."

"I don't need my big brother protecting me!" Sam snarled. "I'm not a kid anymore. This baby brother crap is just that, crap. I'm an adult."

"But you're his kid brother," Garth explained. "Sam, that's never changing—you must know that by now. And trust you? Man, I thought Dean was the one with trust issues. He trusts you. He just can't help himself. He's hardwired to try and make your life better, easier."

"He usually does the opposite," Sam scoffed.

Garth shrugged and nodded.

"That's family, man," he said.

"If he cares about me so damn much..," Sam began.

"You don't doubt how much he cares for you," Garth countered. "You can doubt Dean sanity, his logic, and you should probably question his taste in music, but you can doubt never how much he cares for you."

"I spent my childhood and teen years trying to get away from all this," Sam sighed. "I ran away, whatever way I could. Actually striking out on my own or just burying myself in my schoolwork or fighting with my Dad to get distance. Now, when I'm finally here and ready to stay, it seems like Dean's always the one trying to leave."

He choked out the last sentence as his lids flooded with tears. He gripped Dean's hand tightly in both of his and held it under his chin. The unconscious man showed no sign of knowing Sam was there.

"He's not trying to leave you, Sam," Garth assured him. "He did what he did this time so he could stay." Sam turned a doubtful expression on him. Garth shrugged. "He did it to get rid of the Loa. Dying for good wasn't his goal. Your brother did it this way because he thought it was his only choice. This way, he had a chance of surviving. I know how it must look to you, but he's not trying to die for good, Sam. Dean did this so he can live and see you complete the trials."

"Do you have a brother, Garth?" he asked.

"No," the scrawny hunter shook his head. "I don't."

"Having one…," Sam shook his head. "It's not always easy."

He patted Sam soundly on the shoulder and sighed deeply.

"Maybe," he replied solemnly, "but take it from me, it's harder without one."

He remained quiet for a long moment, letting the words sink in as he considered the situation. Sam knew how to live without his brother. He didn't like it, but he could do it. There was always a hole in his heart, a place no one could get near because he locked it up and hid it, but that didn't mean he couldn't exist without Dean. He just knew he would always hurt and ache if he was truly gone. Facing the devastating chance of that outcome yet again, possibly for the final time, Sam quietly but adamantly pleaded with the ether.

"Tessa, you can't take him," Sam beseeched as he started shaking under the anguish. "Don't you do it. I'm begging you. Please."

The scrawny hunter suddenly blinked then nodded as he offered up a different solution.

"Sam," Garth said quickly, "you're talking to the wrong person."

"Tessa is like Dean's personal reaper, Garth," Sam explained. "They have this bond, like a sick sort of marriage vow. She's always the one who comes for him. She's… tied to him."

"No, I mean, she's not the one you should be talking to or yelling at right now," Garth advised. "Didn't you hear what Bill said? She's tempting Dean, which means this is still his choice. She can't make him go. You need to talk to him not her."

Garth drifted away, giving the Winchesters some privacy. Sam alone sat Dean's beside his brother's bed. Haunting memories of a hospital and a devastating diagnosis nearly a decade earlier following a car accident filled his mind. He pleaded with his brother then to stay with him, and here he was doing it yet again.

"Dean, man, don't do this," Sam said softly as he bowed his head with tears streamed down his face. "You promised me that you'd be here with me, see me through these trials. I can't do this without you."

He stared down at his brother, seeing no change in his expression and hearing none in the monitors. A sob tore up Sam's throat and nearly choked him. He again gripped Dean's hand tightly.

"I need my big brother to get through this," Sam said despite the grapefruit sized lump in his throat. "You can't leave me. Remember what you promised Dad? You said you'd look out for me."

He wiped his leaking eyes on his sleeve then bowed his head in crushing sorrow.

"I know I've spent most of my life telling you to stop, but I'm not doing that now," Sam said softly, barely able to even hear his own voice. "I need you, and I don't want you to go. Please, Dean. Stay. You gotta stay, Dean. Please. For me."

In that instant, the world rushed back at a dizzying speed for Dean. One moment he was standing on the other side of the room looking into Tessa's dark eyes and only faintly hearing the murmurs of Sam's voice. Then suddenly, there was an immense tug in his chest and Dean was yanked across the room and slammed backward as he found his eyes rolling and fluttering open as his breath got snagged in his throat. He coughed the choked for a moment.

"Sammy?" he rasped and turned glazed, bloodshot eyes on his little brother.

"Dean?" Sam gasped as he placed a palm on his slowly rising chest. "Hey. Are you okay? Can you hear me?"

"What happened?" he asked in a soft but tortured voice.

"I'll tell you about it later," Sam sighed as he pushed the call button to summon a nurse. "I need you to stay awake, okay? Just keep talking and keep your eyes open, alright?"

"You're so loud," he whispered, his head lolling off to the side as his eyes fluttered closed. "Just need a minute."

"Just stay with me, Dean," Sam begged.

oOoOoOo

Dean woke to a white room.

His first thought was he'd died and ended up stuck somewhere between Earth and heaven, where there was no color or definable sounds, like being in limbo… if it smelled like bleach.

His next thought was that he was in pain. This, he figured, was proof he was still alive. His memory of where he was and how he got there was a little hazy, but the aching in his ribs and head were strong enough that he didn't quite care about the little details like location. Of course, he also figured someone else could fill in those gaps as the light above the bed was blotted out by an large head sitting on even larger shoulders.

"You awake for real this time?" Sam asked and suddenly loomed over him. His long chestnut locks hanging lank and damp around his face.

"Drowned rat," Dean remarked in a soft, raspy voice.

His mouth felt dry and his throat scratchy, like he had swallowed a handful of sand. His eyelids ached, but not like they were bruised, more like someone had taken a potato peeler to them. His head was throbbing, which was not a new experience for him. A spot, just behind his left ear was the source of the pain he determined. The sensation of slamming his head on Carl's floor rushed back to him, making him dizzy for a moment.

"Figured you'd prefer not to wake up with your room smelling like a house fire," Sam remarked. "I ran back to the Carl's and showered after the doctor said your heart is as strong as your head is hard."

"Go team," Dean muttered quietly and gave a weak fist pump in the air.

Sam snorted at the response. He then sighed. Dean's color was better, still pale but not the deathly pale from when he was admitted the night before. More of a wan coloring that people get after a long winter inside or a tough bout with the flu. His eyes were still glassy and unfocused, but Sam knew that was the dregs of the meds they pumped into him. The doctor's ruled his "accidental shock" from an electrical surge caused by the storm had not seriously damaged his heart. The medical "experts" figured it had just jolted him badly enough to render him unconscious; the bump on his head did not help matters and made his sleeping beauty act last a bit longer. Sam let them live with their delusions. His mood was too light to care; his brother had made a choice, a conscious choice, to live, to say no to his reaper and to come back to his brother. Sam smiled each time he considered it.

"So why am I here if I'm not dying?" Dean asked, trying to sit up but instantly rethinking that choice as the room tipped and wobbled when he lifted his head. "There are rules, Sam. You remember the rules. No hospitals unless…"

"Well, I forgot them and you were unconscious so you couldn't remind me what they were," Sam interrupted while watching his brother sink back to the safety and stability of the starched white pillows behind him. "Of course, this is your second concussion in just over a week. Oh, just so you know, at some point, we're going to discuss why you had a crackpot doc on hand to restart your heart with what looks like a car battery set up created by MacGyver."

"Dude, MacGyver toys were cool," Dean offered.

"Your heart stopped heart for four minutes," Sam replied. "Add to that your broken wrist—two bones by the way—and two broken ribs and the doctor decided to observe you overnight."

"Is she good looking?" Dean wondered, satisfying Sam's concern about any scrambled memory issues.

"He's about 60 with hair growing out of his ears," Sam replied. "He's been in to check on you like 10 times this morning. I think you've got an admirer."

"Yeah, I'm friggin' fascinating," Dean grumbled. "What happened to Casper the bitchy god after she tried to punched my clock?"

Sam smirked and shook his head. No one could accuse his brother of false bravado; the look on his face was pure disgust. He had faced down a seriously pissed off demigod, nearly died in the process, helped solve a 100 year old double murder and haunting, but all he could comment on was that he got clipped in the final act and was mad at himself for it.

"She's gone and the house is a pile of cinders," Sam said. Dean's bleary gaze focused quickly. "It was a crazy night for the island, man. Rain storm turning into an ice storm. Meanwhile, (according to the reports) you got zapped when Carl's house was hit by lightning. Apparently, per Carl's report, in the same part of the storm, another strike zapped that old tube and cable wiring you saw in the basement at Ana's place. Burned it to the ground. Then, to make matters worse, someone screwed up so there was a little 'accident' with one of the town's salt trucks."

"What kind of accident?" Dean asked skeptically. His brother's grin was too intriguing for this not to be a good story.

"Apparently, one of their road crew guys got a message from their dispatchers to bring salt to the burned out house," he shrugged. "Something about worrying about ice on the driveway in case the fire trucks had to return. Carl said somehow the hydraulics malfunctioned so the whole load of rock salt got dumped into the hole that used to be the basement."

"You torched the whole friggin' house and buried the spot in a ton of salt?" Dean grinned and nodded then groaned. "Damn, I missed that."

"Sorry, man," Sam shrugged. "At least they'll never dig all of it out."

"Yeah, now, that is my kind of overkill," Dean nodded. "We should try that ourselves sometime—I mean, when I'm there to enjoy it."

"Right," Sam said. "We'll make sure we hunt primarily in areas that stockpile rock salt to make it easy and so you can have job satisfaction."

"Hey, a foot of snow fell in Kansas the other day," Dean said. "This global warming thing keeps up, there'll be a lot more places keeping rock salt around. Think maybe that'll cause business to slow down?"

Sam looked at him, wondering if the concussion was worse than he initially thought. Dean stared back and shrugged. Though not a psychic, his older brother seemed to read his thoughts.

"I'm just being an optimist, Sammy," Dean replied. "If I can't have my dinosaur, I'll dream of unlimited piles of rock salt all around. Okay?"

"Yeah, I'm getting the doctor in here to check you again," Sam smirked shook his head.

"Get him in here to check me out," Dean said, sitting up and putting his legs over the edge of the bed. "I'm ready to leave."

"Uh huh," Sam nodded and grabbed his shoulder to keep him from falling forward.

oOoOoOo

The trip back to the mainland was calmer ride than their arrival had been. The boys took the ferry as Carl was up to his ear in paperwork and reporters. The island was abuzz about the break in at the chief's house and the colossal fire that destroyed the crime scene of a grisly murder. All in all, the Winchester's considered, not a bad ending to the case. They arrived at the ferry dock and were greeted by Carl's cousin who had taken care of the Impala like it was his own child. It was recently washed and even waxed. Her sleek black paint gleamed in the morning light. Dean grinned appreciatively, stroking her smooth, flawless surface in greeting.

"Hey, back at the hospital, why were you talking about Kansas?" Sam wondered as he tossed his bag in the trunk.

"It's called planning and research," Dean replied. "We live there some of the time, and we're heading back that way. I watched the Weather channel, Dorothy. Saw that a freak storm dropped two feet from Topeka to Kansas City."

Dean paused and shook his head. A distant and uncertain look filled his eyes. It was a cross between contentment and sorrow. Sam knew the look and knew what caused it. Heeding Carl's intel, he proceeded carefully.

"There ever snow like that…," Sam began. "I mean, do you remember winter back there when you were a kid before it was just us and Dad?"

Dean blinked several times and sighed. Sam hung his head, figuring he should notch this up with all the other failures to pry Dean's lips loose, which was why he was shocked a moment later when his brother began to speak.

"Yeah, actually, I remember this one time," Dean said slamming down the trunk lid as he moved to the driver's door. "It was after my birthday—the year you were born. There was a huge storm. The whole town must have shut down because Dad stayed home from work even. Power went out. It got cold in the house. I remember Dad made us crash in the living room. Mom…"

He paused and swallowed hard. Her voice, still so clear, sounding in his ears. He grew quiet and leaned on the roof of the car, staring down at his hands. Sam allowed him his moment of silence before prodding him lightly.

"Dean, please," Sam pleaded. "I know you don't like to get all 'remember when,' but… I'd really like to know what you're remembering right now. I'm not saying you have to spill your guts or anything, but I don't have any memories of mom of my own. All I have is you and what you recall. You never talk about her, Dean. I know you remember her. I know you have other memories, and that Dad never wanted you to mention her, but that was Dad and you're not him… you're… better than that, stronger than he was. Look, I understand if you don't want to share, but if you do… I'd love to hear something of them… anything, actually."

Dean looked down, his lashes brushing the deep purple smudges under his weary eyes. He then looked up into the eager and beseeching hazel eyes of his brother. In that instant, he did not see Sam his nearly 30 year old brother. Instead, he saw a little boy, age five, giving him the sad puppy eyes asking his older brother why they didn't have a Mom like all the other kids did. A lump welled up in Dean's throat.

"Mom was worried we'd be stranded in the house," Dean recalled, a distant and wistful look in his eyes as he stared straight ahead while looking deep into his past. "You were still a couple months from being born and like I said, there was a hell of a storm. I guess Dad was worried about us freezing to death. It was making them both a little tense."

He laughed lightly. It wasn't funny, but the thought that at one point in his life, getting chilly in the house was his father's greatest fear seemed absurd. Sam, too, smiled at the possibility.

"They started fighting," Dean remembered. "Arguing, I mean. Yelling a lot, whatever. Anyway, mom sent me outside to play in the backyard for a while before the storm got too harsh. I mean, I didn't want to be inside with all the yelling anyway. Outside was… better, even with the cold, when they were yelling. Besides, what little kid doesn't like playing in the snow, right? Power must have gone out while I was out there because when she called me in they were taking out candles and flashlights; Dad had dragged a bunch of blankets into the living room."

"You camped out on the floor?" Sam wondered. They had often done so on Bobby's floor. He wondered if that experience made Dean prefer the bare hardwood to the couch.

"No, Dad had the floor," Dean smiled slightly. "Mom and I were on the couch. I guess you weren't taking up too much room yet so there was space for both of us. I remember she kept asking me if I was cold. Meanwhile, I was practically sweating like I had a fever. She had me cocooned in a bunch of blankets, wrapped up like a toddler burrito, and she was, you know, just… hanging on to me."

The memory amazingly fresh and alive to him. He could see her face and nearly feel her arms holding him, her cheek resting against his forehead as she snuggled with him and whispered assurances that everything was fine. He hadn't worried at the time. Both his parents were there, and he couldn't recall feeling happier or safer. Dean swallowed dryly and continued.

"The wind was so loud that night," he recalled. "It sounded like someone was screaming in the windows. I was a little… you know…"

"Scared?" Sam ventured. "You were just a kid, Dean. That's understandable."

"Whatever," Dean scoffed. "I remember that I woke up before both of them in the morning. Dad was, he was still sitting up, kind of leaning to the side on the couch. His head was resting against Mom's."

"You sat there and watched them?" Sam wondered.

"What am I, a teenage girl?" Dean scowled. "Hell no. I hauled ass out of there and went to my room. The house was warm again and the power was back on, man. I wanted to play with the racetrack I had just gotten for my birthday."

Sam nodded. It was so very Dean.

"Mom woke up first, I guess, and noticed I wasn't there," he recalled. "She must have called for me, but I didn't hear her. I had my door closed so I wouldn't wake them up. Next thing I knew, Dad was shouting for me and hauling ass up the stairs. I thought I was in trouble so I didn't answer him at first. Then I heard Mom downstairs doing the same thing."

"They woke up and their four-year-old was missing," Sam surmised. "I can see might be a little stressful."

"Yeah, I guess," he shrugged.

"Did you get in trouble?" Sam wondered.

"No," Dean shook his head. "I got pancakes—courtesy of Dad."

"Dad cooked something?" Sam guffawed. "Something that wasn't in a can or didn't go in a microwave?"

"Dad trying to cook from scratch, a friggin' miracle, right?" Dean grinned.

"Are you kidding?" Sam remarked. "I'm surprised it didn't end civilization as we know it."

"Guess he was trying to make up for whatever they were fighting about," Dean shook his head. "I remember staring at him there in the kitchen and looking at Mom, worried you know. She saw I was kind of weirded out too and she said…"

He paused while chewing on his lip, still hearing her voice clearly despite 30 years of absence. It was strange, he thought. There were times when he worried he might forget his father's voice. There were moments when he had to concentrate to even still hear the exact gravely croak of Bobby's growl, but his mother's voice always rang clean and clear in his memory.

"What did she say?" Sam asked, eager like a child seeking a piece of candy. "Dean? Please."

Sam had no real memory of her voice, not really. Sure, they'd done a DeLorean moment a few years back and met her before she was a mother and had a word or two with her spirit a few years before that, but it wasn't the same. Sam was an infant when she left them. Dean felt guilty, having these memories and hoarding them, hiding them, all for himself. It hurt to take them out and bring them into the light, but he could see Sam's yearning. It was stronger than Dean's pain. He curled his lips in a thin smile as he finished the story.

"She looked at Dad and started laughing as she said: John, I think seeing you cook scares Dean almost as much as it scares me," Dean chuckled. "He laughed at that pretty hard."

"Well, it was nice he made you both breakfast," Sam smiled in return, basking in the tiny shard of light shed on his family history.

"He didn't make us breakfast," Dean scoffed and shook his head. "He tried. He… failed."

"Failed?" Sam guffawed, joining his brother and grinning at something that wasn't actually hilarious but gave him a warm and giddy feeling, like unexpectedly seeing someone greatly loved and missed. "How did he fail?

"He burned the friggin' pancakes to like charcoal," Dean laughed. "They were like little, black, crispy hub cabs. Finally, Mom elbowed him away from the stove and took over, but you're right, he tried. You know, that's actually the day that they explained to me about you coming into the family."

"Yeah?" Sam wondered.

"Yeah," Dean answered. "They'd tried to break the news to me at Christmas apparently, but it didn't exactly sink in so during breakfast, they told me pointblank that I was going to have a little brother when summer rolled around."

"And you said what?" Sam inquired curiously.

"I said I what I really wanted were Froot Loops and a tree house," Dean recalled, nodding at the memory. Sam stared at him flatly, knowing he was not joking. "Mom laughed. Dad did, too, but mostly he shook his head and looked worried. They dropped the discussion and said they'd get back to me in a few months."

Sam's shoulders shook with mirth as he doubled over, laughing at the response. He believed every word and took no offense. A four-year-old was more interested in sweet things and playthings than a sibling. His brother's childhood honesty was cute and refreshing. He looked at Dean, despite the worry lines and the scars, something about his face retained that boyish air, even in his eyes, normally so haunted by a life of sacrifice.

With a sigh of contentment as his chuckles abated, Sam climbed into the passenger seat of the Impala as Dean slide behind the wheel.

"Sorry for the let down," Sam said.

"About what?" Dean asked.

"The Froot Loops and tree house thing," he shrugged. "Sorry for your loss there."

"Ah, you weren't such a bad substitute, Sammy," Dean said with a shrug. "I can find cereal in any store, and I can't take a tree house on a road trip or hustle pool with it. And you know what, come to think of it: You're obscenely tall and a complete freak—so you're like a treehouse Froot Loop combination anyway."

"Wow, you know how to make a guy feel loved, Dean," Sam smiled, holding his sides as the stitch from his laughter held firm.

"Alright, enough of this sharing," Dean said. "Keep it up any longer, and you'll sprout an ovary. Come on. Let's just get moving."

"Hey, you sure you're okay to drive?" Sam cautioned. "I can take the wheel for a bit. There's no need for us to rush. Dude, your heart stopped, and you nearly died yesterday."

"And I still look better than you," Dean laughed dryly and shook his head. "Seriously, Sammy, you look like crap. You need to get some sleep, dude. You're starting to look like an extra in The Walking Dead. Get some sleep. We'll be back at the bat cave in no time."

"What's got you so pumped to get back?" Sam asked, settling into the passenger seat. "You ready to admit you're tired of the road?"

"Actually, I was thinking we haven't explored all the rooms in our new awesome, secret bunker," Dean remarked, turning over the engine to summon the Impala's throaty growl. "All kinds of stuff in there, cool things that probably don't exist anywhere else anymore, which could mean…."

"There isn't a secret room with a dinosaur, Dean," Sam said firmly. "I'm sure of it. Your pet T-Rex is just a dream."

"You really know how to wreck a guy's hopes," Dean replied as he snapped on the radio to Boston's 'Peace of Mind' blared from the speakers. "You ready to head back to Kansas, Dorothy?"

Sam tilted his head to the side to spy a toothy grin on his brother's face, one to rival that of his beloved and MIA dinosaur hunting partner. The younger Winchester smirked in return.

"There's no place like home," Sam sighed settling back into his seat as the Impala tore into the gravel and began eating up the road.

-THE END

oOoOoOo

A/N: There may be two other stories in this series, but that's up in the air right now as I am devoting all my time to finishing my second novel. Publication is in a few months so I have a lot of polishing work to do.