Title: Three hugs that made it better
Rating: PG-13 for bad words
Characters: Sam, Dean, John
Summary: Some things can be made better with a hug. Some things can't. Wee!chester up to pre-Stanford. Hurt!Sam
Wordcount: 1600
Disclaimer: Still don't own it. But that doesn't prevent me from abusing the boys.
A/N: Story is written as a birthday present for geminigrl11, who was awesome beta too. Remaining mistakes are all mine.

1988

He feels cold and his hair lays flat against his forehead when his head breaks the surface. There's a pain in his chest and if he concentrated, he'd know what it means. Water drips into his eyes, running over his nose, tickling its tip, falls into the dark-blue cloth of his fathers drenched shirt. His small frame is shivering and even his father's arms can't keep the warmth inside his tired body.

"Sammy?" his father says. "Kiddo? Talk to me!"

He feels himself being shaken. That's when he feels the lake water burst from his mouth, spraying his father with the brownish sludge.

"That's it." His father's voice sounds odd. Tired and frightened.

Maybe it isn't his father at all.

He blinks his eyes open, to make sure it's his father who's holding his head. It is. His father's sight makes him sigh and he feels safe again. Safe, meaning closing his eyes and sinking into the alluring darkness winking at the edges of his vision.

"Don't!" his father warns him, followed by another shake and a weak slap in his face. "The water's got to get out." Another purge of water lands next to his head on the bank of the lake. It feels like hours later when the last remains of water and probably half of his guts have spilled out, leaving him empty and still very cold and shivering.

Strong arms circle around his shoulders and he's lifted up, pressed against his father's chest, where he can feel the rapid throbbing of two different heartbeats. "It's okay, I've got you," John Winchester murmurs in his son's ear. "I've got you."

And Sam knows everything's gonna be alright.

1990

"Calm down, John! He's okay." Father Jim is trying his best to keeps his voice calm and his resolve is unbroken. "It's mainly scratches and bruises. He'll be sore a few days but it'll heal just fine if he takes it easy. He's sleeping anyway."

Only Sam isn't. Sleeping that is. Because he IS sore and bruised and every breath seems to fill his lung with fire instead of air. Between the two adults yelling, he can hear his big brother's snores, blowing little gusts of wind into his ear. He'd asked Dean if he could tell him a story to divert him from his countless aches. But that was four hours ago. Dean has fallen asleep in the middle of Captain Jack and Marshmallowman's war against the Easter Bunny .

Sam bites back a moan and cuddles closer to his brother, seeking the warmth to soothe his pains.

"Take it easy?" His father barks back. "He should have been safe here! How the hell did that hell bitch find him?" The voice sounds louder now, signaling his father's fast approach. "I just want to make sure he's okay."

And indeed, only a second later the door to the small chamber Sammy shares with Dean when they're staying at Father Jim opens. The light from the hallway causes Sam to squeeze his eyes shut.

"Sammy? You're awake?!" His father says quietly, as not to disturb Dean in his slumber.

"Yes, Sir," Sam mumbles a moment later.

John Winchester sits down on the edge of the bed, making the whole bed slant to one side. "How are you feeling, son?"

"Fine," he answers dutifully and winces when Dean twitches in his sleep and grazes Sam's hurting side.

"I bet you are," John says and leans down, encircling his large arms around Sam as tight as possible without moving him too much. "It's gonna be okay. You just sleep, okay?"

And Sam knows everything's gonna be alright.

1993

The woods are loud and alive with noise, as if wanting to make up for the darkness. Now, in the dead of night, when the world beyond hunting is savouring the deep sleep of the innocent.

He crouches lower, presses his body against the ground, needles and pine cones stinging where his skin is bare. Even though the days continue to get longer and brighter and warmer, the nights are still cold, the winterly temperature biting in its chills like a dying animal's last efforts to leave something behind. But spring is coming, one way or the other.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean whispers to his right and Sam can hear the smirk in his brother's voice.

"Dad said to be quiet."

It's his very first hunt. Well his first intended hunt. And his mood is still shifting between pride and terror. At the moment, he adds boredom and tiredness to the list of conditions.

"Happy Birthday, midget."

"I'm not a midget!" he objects with a pout.

Dean must be able to see his face, which is only illuminated by the meager light of the moon, because he's grinning like a madman and snorts. "It's midnight, dumbass. Now you're officially a teenager."

Sam tries to find a more comfortable place in his hiding position and answers quietly. "I'm ten and not a teenager. Teenager's got nothing to do with ten. And you are the dumbass!" he pronounces the last word with a slight hiss but at the same time, feels oddly contented to have someone remember his birthday.

Never before has Sam imagined a hunt to be boring but that's exactly what it is. What a stupid birthday present. The worst ever, as far as he remembers. Suppressing a yawn, he strains his eyes to see through the elder bush in front of them, hoping to get a glimpse of his father who is laying low no more than ten feet away.

"Oh come on, Sammy. This is your big day! And you even get to see a Hinzelmann."

A Hinzelmann, a gnome-like creature that is known for its wickedness, has haunted the woods these last few weeks. It wasn't as much as dangerous as annoying; the worst it has done so far is stealing picnic baskets and frisbees from campers. Once, it had shredded a tent. But better safe than sorry, so John Winchester had decided to go after it. And it would be the perfect scenario for Sammy's first hunt.

Another yawn threatens to split his face in half and Sam takes a deep breath, smells fir and damp leaves and quite suddenly, he's awake.

He's not sure what's causing the increase of adrenaline but Dean can feel it too, because his brother throws him a meaningful look and mouths a "Don't move."

The bush in front of them starts rustling and the small branches tremble frantically. Sammy's fingers clench around the small knife in his hand, wishing for a gun. Weapons are probably not even necessary with a small creature like a Hinzelmann but his father had repeatedly told them to be prepared.

But Sam doesn't feel prepared. He feels terrified and clumsy and rigid with fear when a glowing pair of eyes stares at him from deep within the bush. Eyes that sooo don't look like they belong to a gnome-like creature.

"Dean?" he manages to whisper. The eyes blink, its shining orbs already coming closer and Sam can feel sweat starting to break on his forehead. Slowly, he pushes his body up with his arms, wants to crawl backwards but it's too late. With a sound as loud as the crack of a gun, the thing jumps out of its hiding spot. Sam ducks his head, wants to protect his face but feels the claws meeting his shoulder and back already.

"Daaad!" Dean yells next to him and then everything is so fast, like it doesn't really happen at all. Like his brother presses the fast forward button on a remote. Another crack, this time made by a real gun, shatters the quiet whispering of the nightly wood and is rewarded by a high-pitched whining.

And next thing he knows, he's pulled to his feet and hands are groping and moving on his back, ripping away the shredded remains of his shirt. It's Dean's voice that announces shakily, "Just scratches. It's just a few scratches, Dad."

John is kneeling in front of him, eyes wide with shock and disbelief. Sam wants to tell him, he shouldn't get angry, it wasn't his fault but his father seems to understand. He just wraps his strong arms - they are dirty with soil and mud - around his son and instead of the fir Sam smells the scent of his father. Like home.

"It's okay, everything's okay. I'm sorry, everything's going to be alright I promise."

And Sammy believes it.

"Maybe we should wait another year." Dean says breathlessly and his father nods. Sam is glad to hear this, though he would have preferred a "Happy Birthday, son" from his father.

2001

They don't hug anymore. Haven't for a while. Sam doesn't even remember the last time. His memories are overshadowed by endless fights with his father, his own temper drowning all the happy feelings. His pride overpowers everything else.

His father calls it stubborn; Dean calls it mulish. He calls it common sense.

Wiping away tears of anger, he stuffs the books in his bag, pressing them deeper to make his socks fit in. Everything fits in there and the fact makes his eyes water again. Nineteen years shoved into a single backpack. But it would be enough. It's not like he'll need much more at Stanford.

And now, the thought of a sentimental gesture such as a hug makes his stomach churn. His father's anger and ignorance doesn't leave room for hugs.

Sam puts his backpack on his shoulder and leaves the apartment with the painful knowledge that not even all hugs in the world can make this mess better.