A/N: And...Here is the end to Confessions of a Toy Soldier. Sorry it took a little longer than I would like. I was in a car accident, attacked by a yellow jacket, and then my son came down with a vicious screaming ear infection. As you can see later on in this chapter, I shared my pain with poor Dean and John. Sick screaming kids are the worst! But, finally a day off, and no asteroids have hit me, so here I am.

Just to clarify, these flash backs are from Dean's point of view, save the very last one which I believe is called third person omniscient? Anyway, time wise, we have a few weeks following the boys childhood sthriga attack, followed immediately by the night after the boys take on the zombie in CSPWTD. The very last segment hopefully is self explanatory.

I had fun with this one. Some brotherly fluff, because, damn it, I can, and I personally needed it.

Hope everyone enjoys. Feel free to check my latest project, Prisoner of War. Second chapter should go up tonight or tomorrow. It's AU and quite different from my other work so far.

Reviews are Love,

As Always,

EverReader

Disclaimer: No-no-no, not my sandbox. Blah blah.

November, 1989

"We have to go back!" Sam wailed from the safety of Dean's circled arms as the boys sat in the backseat of the Impala.

Dean met his father's eyes in the rear view mirror, green eyes beseeching.

It had been ten miles since the six-year old had realized the little toy had been left in the hotel room when they checked out.

Ten very long miles.

Dean had tried everything. Shrugging it of. Offering to buy Sam another one. Offering to buy Sammy two more. Offering to get Sam one hundred more (at this point, if Dad wasn't willing to fork out the money, Dean would happily steal the little bastards for Sammy.)

All to no avail, however. It had to be that one.

"Sammy, you've been warned about taking your toys out in hotel rooms when we are only staying one night." John replied gruffly, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

"Are you hungry Sammy, I got some Oreos, I'll share them." Dean offered desperately.

The volume of the wailing increased.

"I'll give them all to you?" Dean was begging, and he didn't even care.

Sammy's crying only intensified still more.

Dean wasn't sure he'd ever actually seen Sammy this upset about anything before. He'd made plenty of bottles for Sammy when he was little, changed diapers whenever an infant Sammy had started to crying.

But this wasn't like that. Sammy wasn't mad, or hurt or sad. He sounded terrified and had started bordering on hysteria. The only time Dean could ever remember being even close to this bad was the time when a two-year old Sammy had woken up in the middle of the night with a raging ear infection. He'd never had one before, and his fear and confusion at the raging pain inside his own head had nearly been worse than the pain itself.

Still the screaming continued, Sammy's face was red and swollen and Dean was starting to be afraid Sammy was going to make himself sick.

"Dad..." Dean spoke the words aloud before he even realized it. He knew their father had caught another hunt, that they had to make good time. He wished like anything that stupid old gardener had never given that damn soldier to his little brother in the first place.

"He'll cry himself out, just give him a moment." John's voice brokered no argument.

Another two miles passed, and Sammy continued to scream, siren-like, gasping screams that made Dean want to claw his eyes out, screams that lit every big brother nerve ending up like the fourth of July. Within another mile, Sammy was breathless between screams, arms and legs flailing as he refused to give up the battle even though now he was coughing as much as he was crying.

"Dad!" Dean said again, more urgently as one cough turned into another and another and suddenly Sammy wasn't struggling just to scream, he was struggling to breathe.

"Sammy, just breath, okay, you just gotta breathe!" Dean cried, fully panicked himself now. "Dad, he can't catch his breath! Sammy, breathe already!"

John wrenched the Impala to the side of the road, impatience warring with fear on his face. In just seconds he had gotten out of the car and opened the rear door of the Impala.

Dean suddenly found himself with empty arms as he scrambled across the bench seat into the late morning sunlight. John was crouched at the side of the road next to the car, more than half holding up Dean's little brother as Sammy's eyes roamed wildly, neither settling on anything or seeing anything.

John shook him a little, trying to get him to focus, to settle down, but Sam continued to try to scream, leading to even more coughing. His lips had gained a blue tinge that Dean hadn't seen since the Sthriga had climbed through their window all those weeks ago.

"Sammy!" John's voice had gained it's own edge of desperation, but Sammy couldn't replied, couldn't scream, couldn't cough, couldn't breathe-

Viper-quick, John slapped his flattened palm into Sam's cheek, hard enough to rock Sam's head back.

The three of them froze shock, the only sound Sammy's ragged breathing as he slowly, painfully started to gain his breathe.

John was crouched, horrified, looking at his hand like it had a life of his own, and it was Dean who caught Sammy when he crumpled.

"Sammy, Sammy, you okay?" Dean's words were tripping over themselves, they tumbled so fast from his lips. Sure, Dad had spanked them in the past, but he'd never hit either one of them before.

Sammy wasn't doing anything, just staring over John's shoulder, as if he could will himself to grow wings and fly back to the little plastic soldier, that magic talisman that could keep the monsters away.

'Sammy..." John spoke the word halting, reaching his hand out jerkily, as if trying to pet a wild animal. Sammy stayed motionless, for all the world as disengaged from everything around him as if he were asleep with his eyes open. Silent tears were running down his cheeks, the left of which was showing the red imprint of John's palm, but Sammy took no notice, mind firmly elsewhere.

It was Dean who flinched back, hard enough to pull both boys out of John's reach, as he and his father had a broken, bewildered staring match over the youngster's head.

Dean knew John was sorry, could see it all over John's face, but still, Dean found his muscles tense, coiled as if to spring into action, carry his little brother away, away from all of this and he had no idea what to do.

"It's magic, Dean. It'll keep us safe from the monsters." Sammy"s voice was only in Dean's head, the real Sammy still and silent in his arms.

Maybe Sam needed that soldier more than Dean had realized.

Maybe they all did.

John seemed to read his oldest son's thoughts as they crossed his face, for he let out a long, shuddering breathe.

"Okay. Yeah..." He scrubbed a weary hand across his shell-shocked face. "Okay. Let's get you two back in the car..." He reached out a hand, tentatively placing it on Dean's shoulders, and Dean allowed it.

But Dean carried Sammy back to the car.

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That night, Dean lay in the back seat of the Impala, head cushioned on his father's leather jacket as he held is little brother close in his arms.

Sam didn't speak, didn't wriggle, just stared over Dean's shoulder's at the stars, still flying fast and far away in his six-year old mind.

The little plastic soldier was clasped loosely in his hand, but though Sammy wouldn't let go of it, he wouldn't acknowledge it either.

Dean shifted again, restlessly. He could hear their father's gentle snores from the front seat. They'd lost time going back for the soldier, and John had pushed hard to make it up, which is why they were now asleep on a gravel road instead of in a motel room.

"Sammy?" Dean whispered finally, needing to hear his brother's voice. He didn't know what he had expected, when they had gone back for Sammy's soldier, but whatever it was, he hadn't gotten it. Sam hadn't laughed, or said thanks. He hadn't even smiled. He'd just looked at Dean and John sadly, before seeming to sink either further into himself.

John had been reluctant to push, guilty and silent in the front seat.

Now, as Dean lay under the stars, he could feel the silent tears on his arm as his brother took up his soundless weeping once again.

"Don't cry, Sammy. It'll be okay. Dad went back and got it, it's right here. Nothing bad's gonna happen."

Sam shuddered, a small whimper breaking loose as he turned to hide deeper in Dean's chest. Dean's arms tightened instinctively around his brother as he felt his own heart fracture a little more.

"Talk to me, Sammy. Tell me what's wrong..." He begged quietly, afraid to raise his voice and wake their father.

Sammy sniffled and burrowed still deeper, until Dean began to worry whether or not he could breathe like that. Slowly, gently he eased Sammy away from him, until they were far apart enough for Dean to see Sammy's tear-streaked face. "Sammy." He urged, his voice already taking on the commanding tone he would use as an adult. "Tell me what to do to fix it."

Sammy just sniffled and shook he head.

"Can't." He whispered, voice choked and small. "Broken."

"What's broken?" Dean asked, relief swimming through his veins that Sammy was at least talking, if only a little.

"Is your soldier broken?" Dean asked.

Broken, that Dean could take care of. Dean was good at fixing things, Dean was excellent at fixing things. If Dean could build Sammy a bike, then he sure as hell could fix a toy soldier, if that's what Sammy needed.

Dean would fix whatever it took, if that was what Sammy needed.

"Not that kind of broken." Sammy said reluctantly, opening his hand in a patch of moonlight to display the unharmed toy.

"Then what do you mean?" Dean asked, unease fighting with disappointment inside him. It would've have been nice for it to have been something easy, something concrete that he could have fixed.

"The magic's broken." Sammy finally admitted. "You and Dad, you don't believe. I don't think it can work if you don't believe. I'm not enough" Sam's voice had grown even smaller as he seemed to shrink inside of Dean's arms.

"Hey!" Dean shook Sammy, just a little. "You're enough, you got that? You're enough for me and enough for Dad and you're sure as hell enough for that little plastic soldier." He searched Sammy's face for some sign that he was getting through to him.

Sammy watched Dean warily. "You really think so?" Sammy asked finally.

"Course I do." Dean replied, no shred of doubt in his voice. After all, Dean might not believe in magic plastic soldiers, but if anyone in the universe was good enough to make one magic, it was his little brother.

"You've always been enough. And anyway, you're not alone. I believe in it too." he finished.

Sammy narrowed his eyes. "No, you don't." Sammy asserted.

"Sure I do." Dean sat up, bringing his little brother with him.

"Look, what did that old gardener say to do again?" He asked as if he hadn't been helping Sammy carefully place the toy in their windowsill every night for weeks now.

"He said to put it in our bedroom window." Sammy answered.

"But we don't have a bedroom window tonight Dean. Don't even have a bed." He looked around the backseat helplessly, tears starting to gather at the corners of his eyes again.

Dean wasn't having anymore tears, though, so his mind raced for a way to shut down his overtired and emotionally wrung out little brother ASAP.

"Here." He said, gesturing to the door he had been leaning against. He flipped open the ashtray. John didn't smoke, and the inside was as spotless as the rest of John's prized car. "We sleep in the car more than anywhere else anyway. This IS our bedroom Sammy."

Sammy smiled, the slow one that broke across his entire face and lit up their entire hemisphere of the planet whenever it made it's appearance. "Think so?"

"Know so. I'm the big brother. I'm always right." Dean asserted.

Sammy's smile widened, if possible, hitching up a little higher in one corner, a funny, crooked smile that was tattooed across Dean's heart and soul and wherever else that truly mattered.

He leaned over Dean's lap to stick the soldier into the ashtray.

They settled back down, Sammy pillowed on Dean's shoulder, Dean pillowed on John's jacket.

"You know Dean..." Sammy's voice was content now, heavy and laced with sleep.

"Hmmmm?" Dean replied, already halfway gone himself.

"Keeps you safe too, Dean. Helps me protect you form the monster's too." Sammy finished, falling asleep even as the words left his lips.

Dean pulled his brother tighter. "You've always been enough for me, Sammy."

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June, 2005

Dean sat in the clinic waiting room while the Doctor set Sam's broken hand. Normally he'd have gone along in the room with Sam, not because Sam needed him too, but because it was Dean's job to make sure the Doctor did his job right.

The roadside confession an hour ago had drained him, however, so he simply sat in the hard plastic waiting room chair as they treated his brother.

"Sam Guerin?" Dean's head jerked up at the sound of the fake name he had used for Sam at check in. He hadn't had the time or emotional resources yet to get new fake insurance for him and Sam, so the name hadn't mattered too much, as he was shelling out cash for Sammy's newest accessory.

"S'my brother." Dean replied tersely, gaining his feet. "He ready to roll?" He added, looking around the portly Doctor for his brother (as if someone Sam's size could hide behind a man of the Doctor's meager height).

"Not quite." The Doctor replied. "I'm Doctor Bender. Sam's arm has been set, thankfully there was no need for pins or surgery." Doctor Bender said, watching Dean thoughtfully. "Though I might add that it appears to be either the second or third break for that arm."

Dean frowned at the Doctor's fishing. "Kids always been clumsy." He replied easily enough, with a practiced shrug.

"Hmm mm. I suppose that would also explain the broken ribs, the wrenched knee, and the fading signs of a fairly recently concussion?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean barked, eyes widening as he got up in the Doctor's space. Deciding he needed to see his brother for himself, he started to move around the Doctor, only to be stopped by a very brave hand on his arm.

"Please allow my nurse to do her job, Mr. Guerin." A thread of steel laced the congenial-looking Doctor's voice, and Dean's eyes flashed back to the small man in front of him, quickly re-evaluating his earlier impressions.

"None of the other injuries appear to be from the past day or two, as his arm obviously is. But they're not more than a few weeks old, at the most. And your brother obviously didn't get the follow-up care he should have. The knee's doing well, from what I can tell, though it's an imprecise science at best without an MRI. And his pupil response is normal, though he mentioned something about headaches. If those continue, he should see a specialist, preferably a neurologist. He mentioned having migraines on and off for several years now, so I went ahead a wrote him a refill for a migraine prescription. It doesn't exactly have street value, so I see no reason not too. However, if they continue or increase, he will need proper care."

Dean flinched a little as the Doctor continued. "His ribs are what I am most concerned with. He had green stick fractures along three of them at some point, but whoever treated him obviously didn't give him a sufficient prescription for the pain, or else he simply didn't take it."

"What are you saying?" Dean bit out, defensive at the Doctor's carefully worded explanations.

"People with bruised and broken ribs tend to breath shallowly, to avoid the pain. Sometimes this causes no problems, but sometimes this type shallow breathing can lead to respiratory illness."

"Pneumonia." Dean interrupted incredulously. Sure, Sam had been looking kind of done in lately, but so had Dean, with their constant hunts and the still too large grief over their father. But Dean was pretty sure he would have noticed injuries like what the Doctor was talking about. Would have noticed broken ribs and concussions and pneumonia for Christ's sake.

The Doctor hesitated. "Pre-pneumonia, still in the very early stages. Just starting to settle in I'd say. He's running a low grade fever, and I almost wrote it off as a re-action to the broken arm. I didn't like the sound of his breathing though, so I threw in a chest x-ray while we were looking at his arm. I've already given him a shot of penicillin, and wrote a script for more of that also, you'll need to make sure he takes it or things could get ugly quickly."

Dean scrubbed his face. When the hell had Sam gotten so badly hurt? How could Dean not have noticed. It wasn't the zombie, or the Rakasha, or the vamps. Had Gordon hurt Sam worse than Dean had realized? Or-

Suddenly everything clicked in Dean's brain and he felt his knees give. From a distance he felt the Doctors hands guide him into a waiting room chair as he leaned forward to combat his rising nausea.

The accident. The car accident. THE car accident.

Dean had gotten the miracle wonder treatment through whatever dark mojo dad had worked, but Sam had been left to heal on his own.

He was already up on his feet, had been on his feet for days by the time Dean had even been conscious. He'd been the one to get the Impala taken care of, gotten the Ouija board, dealt with their father and Bobby.

And even before the wreck, the yellow-eyed demon had thrown Sam about. His so-called son had gone a few rounds with Sam just a few hours before that back in Jefferson City. Dean had asked him, at the hospital, wincing at the bruises on Sam's face. Sam had shrugged it off, saying the ER had cleared him days ago. Dean had meant to press further, big brother instincts lighting up like Christmas, but then their Dad died, and Dean had been lost.

Lost in the pain and regret and guilt. Their Dad had died for him, Dean was sure of it, but not before he had entrusted Dean with a horrible secret.

"Watch out for Sammy. You have to save him Dean. You have to save him, or you're gonna have to kill him."

And wasn't that the kicker, kill Sam-kill Sammy-his Sammy-the brother he had spent his entire life protecting, kill Sammy-

"Mr. Guerin" The Doctor's voice jolted Dean out of his rambling thoughts and he stood, pacing to put some space between him and Doctor's all too-seeing eyes.

"Uh, yeah, yeah. No, I got it. There, um..was an accident. About five weeks ago. Sammy was in an accident. A car accident." Dean's voice trailed off.

"Were you injured? Do you need follow up attention also?" The Doctor's voice had softened, kindness showing through now that his patient's injuries were being more satisfactorily explained.

"Me?" Dean laughed humorously. "Nah, I wasn't there." Because he hadn't been, not really. Sam had had to protect him and their father from the demon in the truck, and later at the hospital. Sam had obviously pushed through his own injuries, triaged himself in order to care for his wounded parent and sibling.

"But, uh, my Dad was killed. He...uh, died right about the time I got there. Sammy was already on his feet by then. Little shit said he was fine, and I...uh, haven't been on my "A" game exactly, since then.

And Dean had been so caught up in his secrets and guilt that he hadn't even seen the physical pain his brother must have been in, not to mention the emotional pain of losing Dad less than a year after Jess.

Dean had been so wrecked by the whole event, sometimes he could barely look Sam in the eye without hearing his father's voice echo in his mind (save Sammy kill Sammy watch out for Sammy).

The Doctor watched him compassionately. "Losing a parent is hard." He stood up. "You will not, however, be losing a brother anytime soon. At least, not if we get him a slighter better standard of care than he's been receiving, anyway. Do you think you're up to the challenge?"

"You have no idea." Dean agreed, voice gone hard with the strength of his assertion. "I'm not losing anyone else."

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Dean sat in the darkened motel room, watching his brother sleep.

Sam was sprawled out, lost in the sea of pillows Dean had insisted in, propping up his knee, his chest and his newly casted arm.

Dean had been sitting for the last few hours, watching the rise and fall of his brothers chest, finding his own breathing coming into sync with Sam. Finally, Sam started to stir, and Dean stood up. He'd been waiting for his cue, the pain medicine he'd forced down Sam's throat at dinner time had been due to wear off anytime now.

"Sammy..." He called in his best low, comforting big brother voice.

"D'n" Sam mumbled, less than half awake at best. "S'time's it?"

"Time for more of the good stuff." Dean replied, going over to Sam's duffel. He'd tossed the pill bottle in there earlier in the evening when he'd been picking up, and now naturally it was proving difficult to find. He sighed in frustration, hopes of getting more medicine into his brother without having him fully wake up or go back to sleep again dissipating.

Alerted by his brother's tone, Sam sat up, blearily searching the room for his brother.

"Here we go." Dean extracted his hand from Sam's duffel, victoriously displaying the pill bottle. The smile faded from his face when he saw what else he had grabbed from Sam's bag.

"Dean?" Sam mumbled again, more clearly this time, but Dean didn't answer.

Alarm banishing the last of sleep from Sam's brain, he started to get up from his nest of pillows when he was stopped by his brother's words, an odd tone in voice.

"I though I lost it." Dean said, staring down at the small green soldier in his hand. "I pulled it out, on accident, right before-well. And, um" He swallowed raggedly. "Anyway, I looked all over the Impala when I was rebuilding her."

"Dean..." Sam's voice trailed off but Dean didn't seem take any notice.

"He was gone. He was just...gone". Dean sat bonelessly down on his bed, just staring at the the toy. He didn't even react when Sam finally managed to sit up, the beds so close their knees practically touched.

"You had him the whole time?" Dean asked finally, raising tear bright eyes to Sam.

It was Sam's turn to search for his voice.

"I found him, when Bobby and I went to the salvage yard. You were in the hospital, man, you, you wouldn't wake up..." He paused and then continued, "And something was hunting you,and I couldn't help you...I just..." He shrugged, seemingly lost for words.

"I didn't have anything else to give." He shrugged a wounded little half shrug. "So I put it in your window at the hospital. When we left, I grabbed it up, put it in my duffel."

"You never said anything." Dean said lowly, staring at his brother's face.

"You haven't exactly been in the mood for acts of faith lately." Sam replied sadly.

"Yeah." Dean agreed. "Yeah." He stood up suddenly and strode over to their motel door, wrenching it open.

"Dean?" Caught of guard, Sam struggled to make his sleep-loosened limbs obey his brain, but the traces of pain killers left in his system hindered his progress. As he was finally gaining his feet he heard the slam of the Impala's door.

"Dean?" he cried, now panicked. "Dean?"

"What? Sammy—What the hell are you doing, Sasquatch? Get your ass back in bed" Dean strode back in as if he'd only been checking the mail.

"What-what? I thought..." Sam's brain stuttered, came to a halt as Dean half helped, half forced him back into bed, preemptively moving Sam's various limbs to his satisfaction.

A few seconds later he stood, surveying Sammy's position one final time. Grabbing the pills and a bottle of water of his bed he handed them over to Sam with a firm command. "Now. No arguing. Full dose, then back to sleep. We gotta move on in the morning, and those antibiotics the Doc gave you won't work if you don't get enough sleep."

Sam swallowed the pills obediently before questioning one last time. "Dean?"

Dean's hand s and voice both softened as they pulled the blanket over his younger brother.

"He's back where he belongs Sammy. Now go to sleep."

Sam held Dean's gaze for a long time, as if searching for something in Dean's eyes he didn't really expect to find.

Slowly, oh so slowly a small smile crept across his face. "Yeah, Dean. You got it."

He settled back into the pillows, and within minutes the pain relievers had lulled Dean's baby brother back so sleep.

'Big brother's back now, Sammy', Dean thought to himself as he finally allowed his own eyes to drift closed. 'Not gonna leave you alone anymore'.

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May 2009

Nearly two decades after being attacked by a Shtriga at the tender age of six, Sam Winchester would meet a man, an author.

Whenever he would lay eyes on this man, he would be haunted by a sense of...recognition.

Things were starting to move quickly, however, and Sam Winchester did not have time to chase phantom memories.

It seemed more and more likely that Sam would have to try to defeat the devil, that it would, in fact, be up to him, alone, bereft of any succor, any aid.

The Demons were winning, the angels were the enemy, and God had apparently left the building.

Bobby, Cas and even his brother had given up hope. Only Sam was left at the table, the last piece on the board.

It was endgame, and Sam was left with one last desperate play.

It was the only thing he had left to give.

Sam Winchester wasn't a fool, though.

Stories like this do not have happy endings.

Stories like this end bloody.

But in the very last chapter, on the very last page, Dean Winchester remembered something very important. He remembered a promise he had made, with a thousand words and deeds and thoughts.

Stitched together with blood red thread and salt lines; with hot black coffee and cold star-filled nights.

Born from fire and a desperate, determined love, came one truth.

He was Sam Winchester's big brother.

It was not a matter of hope, or faith. It was neither a choice or a decision.

It was a fact. Like gravity, like daybreak, like the tide and the burning of the Sun.

There was one certainty in Dean Winchester's life.

He was Sam's big brother.

If Sam was hurt or scared, lost or alone; if Sam needed his big brother, then no force in the universe could stop Dean Winchester from finding his baby brother.

If it all ended bloody, then so be it.

He would not leave Sam to face the monster alone.

And Sam discovered that, perhaps, in the end, it had never really been about saving the world.

That all the angels and all the demons had gotten it wrong. Sam was neither the boy king, or the boy born to break the world.

Everyone had forgotten one crucial fact, one incredibly important detail.

He was just Sam Winchester.

"You and me, We're all that's left."

For Sam, it had always been about keeping a promise he himself had also made years ago...

"I don't want ten years. I don't one one year. I don't want candy!"

When Lucifer had bound his mind and body and will so tightly that no other part of him lingered...

"I'm not going to let you die, period."

It was about saving the person who had always saved him...

"He's my brother."

And in that endeavor, perhaps, you might say Sam had a little help.

Sometimes there's a plot twist. Sometimes there's a sequel. Sometimes you think a story is ending, and it's really just beginning. That's the thing about stories. They change with the telling. What I write and you read might very well be two different things. A toy can become a talisman. A villain can become a hero. An entire story can turn out to be nothing more than a chapter in a much larger book.

You don't really know what will happen until you turn the page.