Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Note: This is for trickydeepwoods for the spn_j2_xmas fic exchange on LJ.

Many thanks to SandyDee84 for helping with ideas and to Cheryl for the beta.

Summary: CPS has descended on the Winchesters, John's away on a case, and it's a stormy night. What could go wrong?

Wilder Grew the Wind

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

(Thomas Campbell)

When Sam thought about it later, two things would always stand out for him about that night. First, he fell asleep listening to the howling of the wind and wondering what a CPS officer had to be smoking to think Ben and Gertie Thomas were capable of running a foster home. Second, he woke up soaked to the skin, and –

But there was a lot that happened in between falling asleep in the gable room in his foster home and waking up in the only real home he could remember. And there was a lot that happened before that, too.

"What took you so long?" Sam asked, and as hard as he was trying to keep his voice steady, there was a quaver in it that did horrible things to Dean's insides.

"Go to sleep, Sam," he muttered, because he couldn't say anything else. Saying anything else would mean admitting the truth, that he'd been scared out of his mind, terrified in ways he'd never been before, never thought he could be.

"But –"

"We'll talk about it later, Sam. Go to sleep."

The silence from the other bed told him Sam recognized the evasion, and for a moment Dean wondered if it had been a mistake to put off the conversation. But it was done, and he couldn't talk about it yet. It was too soon, and it had been too close.

When CPS finally caught up with the Winchesters, it wasn't, as karmic justice should have willed, because of a hunt gone wrong or too many schooldays sacrificed to shotgun training. Oh, no. It was because Tom Delaney deliberately tripped Sam up on the soccer field. The resulting sprained ankle meant a trip to the school nurse. Sam did his best to avoid it, not least because he knew the nurse would call Dean.

But Coach Carstairs insisted, and the nurse took one look at the burn scar on Sam's leg from a two-week-old encounter with a Firebird, and Sam knew they were screwed before she even picked up the phone.

Dad was away, and that was the clincher. Well, half of the clincher. The other half of the clincher was that Dean was known as "that weird Winchester kid, don't go near him, he's probably in a gang". Leaving a fourteen-year-old son with an eighteen-year-old who might or might not be a gang member didn't sit well with the stern-faced lady from CPS.

Her name was Angela Whyte and the first thing she said to Sam was, "You can call me Mrs. Whyte, and you don't have to be ashamed or embarrassed about anything when you're talking to me."

Sam tried to explain that he wasn't ashamed and he wasn't being abused and he'd got the burn on his leg in a camping accident (which was technically true) but she just pursed her lips and shook her head and exchanged knowing glances with the nurse.

And that was how Sam ended up with Ben and Gertie, alone, away from his family, wondering why the hell Dean didn't spring him from their miserable little house. Sam had tried to slip away, but Gertie had eyes like a hawk and his one attempt at sidling out the back door had ended in a long interview with Mrs. Whyte and a sheaf of pamphlets on Stockholm Syndrome.

When Dean thought about it later, the events of that night would be a vague blur beginning with his argument with his brother and ending with the moment of mind-numbing terror when Sammy's limp, waterlogged body was deposited in his arms. That he always remembered clearly: the blue-tinged lips, the sweep of dark lashes on pale cheeks.

What took you so long?

Dean didn't know how he was going to answer that question. There was no excuse he could give, no apology that would even begin to make up for what he'd almost allowed to happen.

He sat in the living room, knowing Sam was in their shared bedroom, wanting more than anything to go in and see for himself, one more time, that his little brother was alive and well. He didn't, because he didn't want to allow himself the relief. He didn't deserve the relief.

He deserved to sit here by himself, on the couch in the dark in front of the window that looked out on another block of shoebox apartments, and think about how close he'd come to losing the one thing that still gave his life meaning.

Sam could have died.

Sam could have died alone and scared, believing his family had abandoned him.

Staring out the grimy window into the night, Dean felt tears prickle at his eyelids.

Charlotte Hagan – Lottie, as her sobbing sister called her – had been dead for ten years. She'd been a high school freshman when she'd drowned, and Dean had shuddered when his father had described her story to him. Lottie had been out late with her boyfriend, Justin. It'd been past her curfew and she'd lied to her parents about where she'd be. Justin wasn't the kind of boy they had in mind for her. He wasn't a druggie or anything, but he was more into his guitar and his band than into school, and he'd declared that after high school he wasn't going to get a job or go to college, he was going to be a rock star.

So Lottie had claimed she was going to be out with Neil Sawyer, a much more desirable young man who got straight As.

There had been a storm that night. A terrible storm, and Lottie, not daring either to break her ten pm curfew or call her parents and tell them where she really was, had tried to get home by crossing what was normally a perfectly safe foot bridge across the creek.

It had been a freak accident. Branches and stones and debris had made a natural dam upstream, holding back the water until the pressure building up behind it had grown simply too strong. The dam had broken and a wall of water had swept through the creek, dragging Lottie off the bridge. They'd found her body the next day, caught in reeds.

Justin? The creep who hadn't even offered to take her home in that terrible storm for fear of her father? He'd been found drowned in the same creek a few weeks later. Some people said he couldn't deal with the guilt. Lottie's sister thought it was poetic justice.

Sam lay on top of the bedcovers, staring up at the ceiling in the half-light.

He was alone in the gable room. There were two other foster children living with Ben and Gertie, but their house was large and sprawling, and Sam had a room to himself.

He didn't like it.

It wasn't that he didn't enjoy privacy. Which fourteen-year-old didn't? It was that he wasn't used to this kind of privacy. Sam's privacy involved Dean down the hall, sprawled on the living room couch watching bad movies. Or at least a phone call away, if he and Dad were on a hunt.

This? This loneliness and silence that he shared with the twin sons of a woman who'd died of an accidental overdose of cocaine? Sam didn't like it.

Oh, he didn't mind Andy and Tim. They were all right. They weren't really cut up about their mother – apparently they'd barely known her, spending more time in foster care than out of it even while she was alive. They'd shown Sam their swimming spot by the creek and how to sneak through the hole in the garden fence after Ben and Gertie were asleep.

But they weren't Dean.

Sam heaved a sigh.

It had been a week since Dean had left the police station after a shouting match with the CPS officers. He'd promised to call Sam, promised to break him out, but he hadn't. Sam had managed to grab a few minutes alone to call Dean that evening, but it hadn't ended well. Sam had outlined his brilliant, ten-point plan for getting away from Ben and Gertie, and Dean had said, "Don't make trouble, Sam. Just stay there till Dad's back and we can sort this out."

Don't make trouble, Sam.

Dean was going out of his mind. He didn't understand how Dad could focus on the hunt when Sam was –

Sam was –

He didn't even know where Sam was. Well, he knew broadly, Sam was with the creepy couple in the creepy house by the creepy creek, but he didn't know exactly. And that was just wrong. Dean always knew exactly where Sam was.

It wasn't about being controlling. Dean never tried to restrict Sam's activities – Dean would, in fact, have cheered if Sam had shown any signs of being interested in activities involving girls and illicit beer.

But Sam knew – Dean had made sure he knew – that Dean had to know where he was at all times. Protecting Sam was Dean's mission, more than hunting, more than finding the thing that killed Mom, more than saving people. Dean did all of that, but protecting Sam came first. Sam knew that, and he knew he had to tell Dean where he was and what he was doing.

And Sam's phone call had just made him feel worse. Sam wanted out of that miserable place – of course he did, who wouldn't? But Dad thought it was better for Sam to stay there, safer for Sam to stay there, until he'd laid Lottie's ghost to rest.

Dean had tried protesting, but Dad had overruled him, and now Sam thought Dean didn't want him around and that's why he was vetoing Sam's escape plan.

Dean hadn't told Sam the truth – that those were Dad's orders. Dad and Sam had been at loggerheads more than usual lately, and Dean knew instinctively that Sam might never forgive their father for this. He always forgave Dean, mainly because Dean was always willing to apologize and buy Sam a new book and offer him one of the hugs he pretended to be too old for.

Sam was startled by the sound of something rattling on his window. He got up, but there was nobody there.

Sam had been raised a hunter, so he knew better than to trust strange noises in the night. He also knew better than to ignore strange noises in the night. He scrambled to his feet and went to the window.

He glimpsed a figure disappearing into the trees by the creek, but it was too dark for him to see who it was, or even if it was male or female.

Sam hesitated. It was stupid to go chasing mysterious figures, especially when Dad was on a case in the area. He hadn't told Sam and Dean much about it, but Sam knew it was some kind of water spirit, and Ben and Gertie's house was right by running water.

On the other hand…

What if it was Dean? The figure had seemed human, not a Kelpie or anything like that, and maybe this was the only way Dean could contact him.

Making up his mind, Sam thrust his feet into his sneakers, pushed open the sash, and clambered out the window. It was a bit of a drop to the ground, but the dirt was soft, and he landed lightly.

He looked at the spot where he'd last seen the figure.

Something stirred in the shadows, and then a girl slipped out of the trees about twenty yards outside the fence. She looked no older than Sam, and her clothes had probably been fashionable back when Dad was in high school.

She didn't come nearer.

"Help me," she begged, her voice thin and reedy and shaking. "Please. Help me." Then she turned abruptly to her left, made a small, frightened noise, and ran into the trees again.

Sam hesitated. He had no idea who she was. What if it was a trick?

He stood there wavering, until he heard a petrified scream from the direction the girl had vanished.

"Crap," Sam hissed, starting to run.

Eventually Dean went back into the bedroom. He was hoping Sam was asleep; he still wasn't willing to allow himself the absolution of confession and Sam's forgiveness, but he did need to make sure his kid was all right.

Sam was lying wrapped in his blankets, curled up in a way that made him look small, as small as he'd been a few months ago, before he'd hit his growth spurt and started sprouting like a beanstalk. It made Dean's chest hurt to see him.

It made Dean's chest hurt even more to realize Sam wasn't sleeping at all. He was wide awake.

"It was a mistake," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed and dropping a hand on Sam's shoulder. "A stupid mistake, Sammy. I thought you'd be safe –"

"Don't cover up for him," Sam's voice came from the depths of the blankets. "It was Dad's idea, not yours."

Kid always was too smart for anyone's good.

The sound of the phone woke Dean from a series of nightmares in which bad things happened to Sam and he was powerless to help. He jerked awake, momentary relief followed by the oppressive knowledge that, for all Dean could tell, bad things might be happening to Sam while he slept in their tiny rental apartment on the other side of town.

The phone rang again, and he padded into the living room to answer it.

"Yeah?"

"Dean?" Dad's voice sounded rough and urgent. Dean glanced at the clock. If Dad was calling him at two in the morning –

"What is it?" he asked anxiously. "Are you OK? Do you need backup?"

"No, I'm fine. Dean, you need to get Sam out."

"What?"

"You said he was in foster care with Ben and Gertie Thomas?"

"Yeah," Dean said slowly.

"Get him out. Break in, do whatever you have to, but get him out of that house."

"What is it?" Dean asked, suddenly terrified that one of his nightmares was about to come true. Were Ben and Gertie evil psychopaths? Mass murderers? Crap, he'd known there was something off about them, which normal people would voluntarily take Sammy away from his big brother. Now Sam was probably tied up in their basement thinking Dean didn't want him around. He should never have –

"Dean! Dean, are you listening to me?"

"Yeah – yeah, sorry. What?"

"The case. Charlotte Hagan. I tracked her sister down and managed to get the details out of her. She drowned, and they found her body in the creek right by the Thomases' house."

"What?"

"Go get Sam. If you can persuade those people to move out with all the kids until we've sorted this out, that'd be great. But no matter what, get Sam out of there."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm going."

John Winchester didn't waste time making calls to the Thomases. This was impossible to explain over the phone, and anyway, he trusted Dean with Sam's safety more than he trusted even himself.

He drove, instead, doing about fifty over the limit, desperate to get back to his boys before any harm could come to either of them.

Dean didn't try to keep up the fiction.

"Yeah, it was Dad's decision. But it was for the same reason, Sam. He thought you'd be safer."

Sam scoffed, shifting like he wished he was facing Dean so he could pointedly turn his back. Dean bit back a smile. Sam would forgive him for smiling, just like he would have forgiven Dean for deciding to leave him stuck with Ben and Gertie. But that was hardly the point.

"Sam, whatever you're thinking –"

"He lied to me. You lied to me."

"I'm sorry."

"Dad's not."

"Probably not. He's Dad."

Dean shook his head, because Sam had absolutely no idea what it was like. Sure, Dad could be stubborn, and maybe a little hot-tempered, but Dean knew what he'd seen in John Winchester's eyes when his younger son had been laid still and unmoving on the bank.

Dean forced himself not to hammer on Ben and Gertie's door. They'd only call the cops on him, and he wouldn't be able to do Sam any good if he was cooling his heels in a cell.

He picked the lock, tiptoeing up the stairs. The bedrooms were all on the upper floor.

It took him two tries to find one that had Sam's jacket draped over the back of a chair. The bed was empty, though it clearly had been slept in.

Crap.

Dean went inside.

"Sam?" he whispered, just in case. "Sammy, you here?"

Nothing.

The Dean noticed the window was open, although the December night was cold.

Crap.

He went to it and leaned out. He could make out scuff marks in the dirt below.

He was about to climb out when he heard footsteps behind him, and an angry voice said, "What are you doing here?"

Sam had spent nearly an hour searching up and down both banks of the creek, but he'd found nothing. There wasn't even anything he could track, no footprints, no sign any person had ever been there.

He was beginning to think he'd imagined everything. It was a quiet night, the water in the creek unusually low. Sam guessed there must be some debris blocking the water. There had been a couple of bad storms earlier that week, and they could easily have blown some trees down.

He was about to give up and go home when he heard another shrill, ear-piercing scream from somewhere behind him. This time there were words in it – Help me! Please! Somebody help!

Sam turned and ran in the direction of the sound.

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me where my brother is!" Dean snapped.

"You'll go willingly or you'll go in handcuffs, but I promise you'll go," said Gertie. "Sam was probably trying to run away to you again. God knows why. It's just… It's not fair."

She turned away suddenly, but not before Dean saw tears in her eyes.

He stared at her, mystified.

"Gertie loves kids," Ben said gruffly. "Broke her heart when our son died. Since then, we've tried… Nothing can replace him, but we've tried to help other kids who aren't fortunate enough to have parents."

And hated all those kids for being alive when their son was dead, judging by Gertie's expression. Dean suppressed a shiver.

"I'm sorry about your son," he said, trying to sound sympathetic. No point pissing them off. "But I'm worried about my brother. I'm not here to make trouble. I need my brother."

"Your father –"

"Our Dad may not be the best father ever, but you know what? He tries. And so do I. I know what they say about me, and maybe I'm not the guy you want dating your daughter, but I would never do anything to hurt my little brother."

Ben sighed. "All right. I'm not promising anything, but let's go look for Sam. Then we can talk."

John pulled his truck to a stop outside the Thomases' door just as Dean came out, followed by a man he presumed was Ben Thomas.

"Where's Sam?" he demanded, knowing he sounded angry, but too worried to care.

Sam emerged, panting, from the trees, into a small clearing that led to a narrow suspension bridge across the creek. He could see her, finally, on the other side of the creek. There was someone with her – a boy his own age – dragging her off into the trees. She was struggling to get away.

"Help me," she called when she saw Sam. "Please! Help me!"

Sam didn't like the look of the bridge. It seemed entirely too unstable. But what choice did he have?

"Hey!" Dean snapped. "Do you two think you could leave the arguing till after we get Sam back?"

His Dad and Ben Thomas glared at each other, but they both nodded.

"I saw tracks," Dean went on, "under his window. We should be able to follow them."

He led the way. The marks in the dirt were still there, though the trail wouldn't be viable for long. It was starting to drizzle. Dean bit his lip.

"It's all right," Dad said, catching his eye. "We'll follow it as far as we can and then we'll figure something out. We'll find him. You hear me, Dean? We will find Sammy."

Sam was halfway across the bridge, soaked to the skin in the sudden shower of rain, when he heard it. It was the most terrifying sound he could possibly have heard in the circumstances: the roar of rushing water.

He ran as fast as he dared, as fast as he could without falling off the bridge. It was a brave attempt, but he was never going to make it, and moments later he was swept off his feet, off the bridge, into the icy dark water.

Dean heard a rushing sound behind him, and turned to see a wall of water racing down the creek bed.

"Oh, God," Ben whispered. "There must have been a pile-up of debris. The last time that happened was the summer Justin died."

"Justin?" Dad asked sharply.

"My son. He drowned. There were so many storms that summer, his girlfriend had died a few days before trying to cross the creek."

"Charlotte Hagan? Her boyfriend Justin was your son?"

"Yes… yes."

Before Dad could say anything more, Dean saw something flash by in the water. Something with dark hair, something that was trying to stay afloat but wasn't going to last very much longer.

"Sammy!" he yelled, making the older men turn in his direction. "Sammy! Hang on, I'm coming!"

Dad responded at once. "Where is he?"

Dean pointed at Sam's head bobbing in the water, just in time to see it disappear under the surface.

"Sam!"

He shucked off his jacket. For a moment Dad looked like he was going to try to stop him, probably to go after Sam himself and tell Dean to stay on solid land. Dean glared at him. He could just see himself standing here like an idiot while Sam was drowning.

"Fine," Dad muttered at last. "But be careful. It won't help anything if you drown too."

Dean plunged into the water, followed by Dad and Ben Thomas.

"Where is he, anyway?"

"Dad?"

"Yeah."

"Salt and burn."

"Without backup?"

Dean finally gave in to the urge and ruffled Sam's hair, chuckling when Sam shot him an I'm-still-mad-and-you-don't-get-off-that-easy look over his shoulder.

"The ghost almost killed you, Sam. I've never seen Dad this pissed. Ever. He'll be fine. Almost feel sorry for the ghost."

Sam tried to swim up to the surface, but something was dragging him down. He turned to push it off – and met the dead eyes of the girl he'd been chasing. Her fingers on his ankle were even colder than the water.

Oh, God. She was a ghost. A freaking ghost.

Sam was never going to hear the end of this.

He tried to shake her off, but her grip was unrelenting. Sam's lungs were burning, his chest was going to explode. He needed air.

He pushed at her angrily, but she only tightened her grip.

Sam thrashed in the water until his need to breathe overcame everything else. He opened his mouth, and suddenly there was water in his mouth, in his nose, in his throat. It hurt, and his head was spinning.

The world went dark.

Dean came up for air, gasping.

A few feet away, he heard Dad come up too.

"Anything?" Dad asked. Dean shook his head. Dad cursed.

"We have to find him," Dean said, voice shaking with the cold and his fear. "It's Sammy. Dad, we have to find him."

"We will." But Dad sounded more desperate now than confident. "It'll be OK, Dean. We'll find him."

About fifty yards downstream, Ben Thomas broke the surface. He was pulling something with him. Dean saw dark hair and a pale face and he was out of the creek and running in Ben's direction without really knowing what he was doing.

Ben, climbing up onto the bank, laid Sam gently in Dean's outstretched arms.

Dean knew right away that Sam wasn't breathing.

"Lay him down," John ordered, and if his voice was shaking a little he could blame it on the cold. "You breathe for him, Dean, and I'll do the compressions."

Dean obeyed quickly, although his hands were trembling. They'd revived victims often enough but this was different, this was Sammy. Annoying, broody, angsty Sammy, yes, but still Sammy, John's son, Dean's little brother, and they were not losing him. Not today, not like this.

John counted out the chest compressions – one, two, three, four – and nodded to Dean to force air into Sam's lungs again.

It was several agonizing minutes of breathing and compressions and choked sobs that Dean would never admit to, before Sam finally stirred and coughed. John sat back to let Dean roll him onto his side. He coughed again, and then he was spitting out water, and Dean was thumping his back, shaking with relief, and John wiped rainwater – rainwater, damn it! – from his face and watched his sons and utterly forgot that he was supposed to be hunting something.

Sam was grimacing, touching his chest, but Dean batted his hand away gently.

"Easy, you probably have bruised ribs."

"Let's get him up to the house," Ben suggested. "We can all dry off, and now that we know Sam's safe I want to talk to Mr. Winchester."

Sam wasn't aware of much beyond Dean's arm around him, strong and sure, as his brother helped him over the muddy ground in the direction of the Thomases' house. Sam didn't want to go back there – he hated the place in ways that couldn't be described – but there wasn't much of a choice. His legs were barely supporting him as it was.

He was aware of the yard fence and Dean half-hauling him up the steps.

It was a moment before he realized they'd stopped moving. When he did, he looked up –

And bit back a groan.

Angela Freaking Whyte.

Sam tightened his grip on Dean's jacket.

The first time Sam whispered, "What took you so long?" it was like a knife in Dean's gut. Sam's voice was still hoarse, and he was shivering despite the comforter wrapped around him.

Dean pretended to ignore the question. Angela Whyte was across the hall – he could hear yelling – and he needed to focus. If Dad couldn't win her over, and it didn't sound like he was going to, they'd have to move. Quickly.

That was what he told himself, anyway.

But he couldn't let Sam keep sounding so forlorn, so he tugged his brother's head down onto his shoulder and said softly, "Get some sleep, Sammy. You're exhausted."

"But –"

"Sleep."

Sam clearly wanted to argue, but he was also tired, and Dean wasn't above sneakily rubbing his back if it meant Sam would get the rest he needed. Sam shot him a look that was clearly meant to be a glare but actually looked like a puppy about to wrestle the hell out of its human's favourite socks.

And then, because Sam really was exhausted, he muttered, "This isn't over," and then snuggled into Dean's side. He was asleep in moments.

That was the sight that met Angela Whyte's eyes when, followed by a furious John Winchester, a worried Ben, and a tearful Gertie, she burst through the door a few minutes later.

Later, Dean would hardly believe they'd been lucky enough that the sight of Sam curled up against him had been enough to change Angela Whyte's mind. Much later, he'd find out that the other two foster children had also been removed from her care, and realize that it hadn't been so much recognition of Dean's awesomeness as it had the odd light she'd seen in Gertie Thomas's eye when she'd burst into tears at the thought of losing 'her boys'.

There'd be more of an explanation later, when his Dad would tell him Gertie was the one who kept Justin's spirit on this side. She knew what she was doing, too. Her mother had dabbled in witchcraft, and passed the knowledge on.

Gertie wasn't evil, John would insist. Just misguided. She intended no harm. She couldn't let go of her son, and she used his ghost and living boys to fill the void.

Dean would roll his eyes and secretly resolve that if she ever crossed their path again, she was going down.

At the time, though, Dean didn't know any of that. All he knew was that Angela Whyte came in, looking like she wanted to kill something. His desperate attempts to silence her were ignored, and she managed to wake Sam.

Sam, poor kid, was only halfway coherent, and he'd already been nearly drowned by one vengeful girl. He shrank away from Mrs. White, and Dean tightened his grip protectively.

Mrs. White pursed her lips.

Then she said, "Fine. Take him. But if I hear a single other complaint…"

"You won't," Dean promised, giving Sam a light squeeze.

"You didn't go with him?"

"Dad's going to be fine, Sam." Dean glanced at Sam and then quickly looked away. "Besides… I've got stuff to do tonight."

"What do you have to–"

"So," Dean interrupted, "you hungry?"

"Am I – what?"

"You have to be hungry. I mean, come on, chasing a ghost, almost drowning – that's a lot of activity for half a night. C'mon, I'll make spaghetti."

"Spaghetti?" Sam asked, not entirely certain he was hearing right. "You're going to make spaghetti at three in the morning?"

"Food is always better at three in the morning. Come on, Sam. Get going. I'll even let you eat in your jammies."

"But… Don't you have stuff to do?"

"Yeah. I have to make spaghetti."

Sam's eyes widened in understanding.

"OK," he said. "Spaghetti sounds good."

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