It's taken me ages to finish this story. I began to write it in Italian before Blade Runners, and it was complete - I only had to translate it into English - but then I watched episodes 9x16 and 17 and re-wrote it all XD. It was originally meant as a one-shot, but then it grew too much and I had to split it in two chapters. Second chapter will be online in a few days.

This story was inspired from my love for Dean. And since I'm one of those (psycho) fans who love showing their love for a character by whumping them, I decided to try and write my first hurt/comfort. The "hurt", of course, is Dean XD

Some brief notes:

I researched Cain and Abel (and I owe a big thank you to Carolina who patiently helped me), but I ended up inventing everything. After all, the show version of their story is different from the Holy Books.

Heatherfield - the town mentioned in this story - is totally fictional. I borrowed its name from a comic book ("W.I.T.C.H.") I used to read and love when I was twelve.

I don't know how some fanwriters manage to write long and detailed hunts, with lots of lore, good enemies and complex stories. I'm not one of them. Sorry ^^'

This is my first hurt/comfort. I know nada about medicine, except what I learnt from TV shows and fanfiction and a little Google. So don't try and use anything you'll find in my story, 'cause it could be a pile of crap. I beg your forgiveness if you're a medical expert, I hope you'll overlook my mistakes for the sake of the story.

I apologize for my English; it's not my first language and I don't have a beta-reader. If you find any mistakes, please let me know and I'll see to fix them.

You can find this story in Italian here: efpfanficDOTnetSLASHviewstoryDOTphp?sid=2568627

Disclaimer: unfortunately, SPN doesn't belong to me. If it did… well, I would meet Jensen Ackles e Jared Padalecki, which would be veeeery good, and we wouldn't have that stupid soulless Sam thing… or that even worse beginning of season eight. Or the virgins episode in season nine. But it's not mine, so…

Consequences

"[…] I will be a restless wanderer on the earth, and whoever finds me will kill me."

"Not so. Anyone who kills Cain will suffer vengeance seven times over."

Then the Lord put a mark on Cain so that no one who found him would kill him.

Genesis 4:14-16

It was night when they returned to the bunker. The car trip had been quiet: still annoyed for having lost the First Blade just when they'd finally found it and being outwitted - again - by Crowley, Sam and Dean were lost in thoughts. Not even the ever-present music disrupted the atmosphere heavy with frustration in the car.

When they got to the Men of Letters bunker in Lebanon, Kansas, Dean didn't park his car close to the entrance like usual, but drove around the building to get to the garage. He wouldn't risk anything else happen to his baby.

Sam didn't say anything; he got out when his brother turned the engine off and started to the main area of the bunker: he was tired and wanted to go to sleep, the last few days had been long and hard and part of a tiring period. Halfway through the garage, though, he noticed Dean wasn't following him. He stood next to the car, staring at its damaged side, a lost look in his eyes. Sam had often teased him for his obsession over the Impala, but he knew what it meant to his brother. He knew it - she - wasn't just a car.

And he knew what it meant to Dean seeing her ruined - violated - by Abaddon. It was one more reason to hate the demon, to want her dead, to throw himself in desperate research. To spend another sleepless night.

Dean must've noticed his staring, because he raised his eyes onto his brother.

"I'm gonna try and put her back together," he only said before walking to the closet where he kept the tools and take something - Sam ignored what, since, as far as he knew, when someone had scratched your car you just took it to a mechanic.

The younger man eyed him for a moment, musing whether to point out to his brother that they were both tired and needed to sleep, not to fix car, but he didn't know how to phrase it; worse still, he knew he had no right to do so: he was the one who'd asked to keep their relationship professional - telling Dean to go to bed wasn't professional, it was brotherly.

He sighed. It was what he'd wanted, after all: for Dean to understand his mistakes, to learn - for Sam, but for himself as well - let his brother go, to let his brother grow up. And to grow up himself.

Sam ignored the voice in his head reminding him of his brother devastated look after their talk in the kitchen and just got through the bunker to his room.

'His room'.

Sam had never felt it as his room. Yeah, it was the room he slept in, where he kept his clothes and his laptop when he wasn't using it. It was the room where he kept his iPod and his hunter journal. But he'd never felt it as 'his room'. Nor the bunker as his home.

If you thought about it, it was strange: Sam Winchester had hated his nomadic life since he was a kid, had wanted a home and a normal life for years before running off to Stanford, where he'd deluded himself to having finally found his desired normality. And wasn't his quest for normality that had kept him in that motel with Amelia? But Sam Winchester had grown up, had learnt that normality can hurt as much as not having a home, if not more. Normality gives you a sense of serenity that just doesn't exist, is not part of life. And that gets ripped out by life itself: Jess had died, Amelia had gone away.

He'd never felt the bunker as his is home because he didn't want a home: he was too scared to lose it; he'd already lost it every time he'd found it.

He'd watched Dean decorate his room, make it his. He'd watched his brother take possession of a functioning old record player - one of those you could only find in private collections, nowadays - and bring it to his room; he'd watched as Dean tried to understand how to use eBay and focusing on the laptop 'till midnight to win the auction for the original Led Zeppelin LPs he wanted. He hadn't scolded his brother for wasting money like that: now that they had the bunker, they didn't need to spare the money they won hustling in bar of ill repute to pay for a motel; also, if they ever found they needed money, the Men of Letters shelter was full of antiquities they could sell.

But he'd never joined Dean in that. The bunker was a work place, a base. It was handy; but it wasn't home. Sam Winchester had stopped believing in normality and had surrendered to a hunter's life: it was the life his father had raised him in, the life where he'd learned to talk and to walk; it was the life that had allowed him to survive when he'd lost all reason to live. And it was the life that should've killed him, given him - at last - the peace he deserved.

He undressed and, clad only in a t-shirt and shorts, he lay down between clean sheets and turned off the light. He fell asleep almost immediately.

It took hours, but Dean finally managed to fix almost all the damage on the side of the car. It was five in the morning when he finally looked up from his beloved Impala and got up wiping his hands on a rag and rolling his neck to loosen stiff muscles.

He was tired. Lately, he wasn't sleeping more than a couple hours at time, and he'd now been awake for almost two full days without interruption. But he couldn't rest: he had to find Abaddon, tear her to pieces with the Blade.

The Blade.

Dean closed his eyes. He remember what he'd felt when Magnus had first put it into his hands, the sudden sharp pain in his arm where the Mark of Cain stood red, the surprise, the heat. His desire to use it. He remembered what he'd felt when he'd finally used it to behead the man who'd dared to hurt Sam. He remembered the power, the rage, the hatred he'd felt when he'd seen Crowley, his excitement when he thought about using it on the demon. Nothing existed anymore around Dean: there was the First Blade in his fist, his target a few feet away.

When Sam's voice had had fought its way through the fog clouding his senses beyond the narrow tunnel connecting the Blade to its next victim, it was like awakening. He'd dropped the Blade as if it'd burnt him - and it had, in a way. Dean had never felt anything like that. A part of him was scared. The other… was looking forward to the next time he'd have the Blade in his hands.

And this scared him even more.

As if awakened by the memory, a sharp pain went through the Mark of Cain and Dean shook himself out of his thoughts. It was pointless, thinking about the Blade and what had happened when he'd used it: he had no choice; he'd have to use it again to kill Abaddon. He couldn't let the demon bitch live.

He put the tools down and ran a trembling hand along his baby's body, like a goodnight caress to the one who'd never betrayed him, even if she'd been hurt many times for him, than strolled out the garage and went to his room. He sadly snorted, closing the door behind himself. A year ago, he'd put all himself into making the room his: LPs, a working record player like there were none in the world, except in some private collections, the only photo he had of his mother, magazines, weapons. Everything that was Dean.

Now the room was bare and cold again. Dean had stopped knowing what "home" meant when he was four, and he'd deluded himself into thinking he could find in the Men of Letter's bunker the same feeling of safety he'd felt as a little kid; but, as they teach children in schools, "home is where mom and dad are, home is where family is". And his family was dead - or had disowned him - what was the point in putting an LP and a photo from the last time his life had been calm? He'd taken everything down and left the weapons, because it was the room of a hunter.

He shrugged off his jacket and left it on the chair by the empty desk and sat on the bed, his boots still in place; he took his laptop and started researching.

He opened lots of websites looking for news about paranormal activity, omens of demonic presence - of Abbadon. And, all the while, the Mark kept burning. The ache never disappeared altogether, it was always there in the background, spiking up every now and then no apparent reason. As if the Mark was trying to remind him of its presence. As if it needed to: after what happened last night, forgetting was impossible.

Honestly, sometimes Dean could've punched himself in his face for his impulsiveness: he would've taken the Mark whatever its cost, but letting Cain tell him what bearing it entailed would've been a good idea. While waiting for Crowley and the First Blade, he'd researched everywhere - among the Men of Letters' books, on the internet, even of his father's journal - but he hadn't been able to find anything: the Genesis book just mentioned it, the experts didn't say anything useful and, most important, no-one seemed to know the story Cain had told him.

And now that he'd held the Blade, the questions were even more, while the answers became more and more frightening.

But it didn't matter, it didn't matter. He had to kill Abaddon and the Blade was the only way to do so.

He possibly fell asleep. Or maybe he just closed his eyes for a few minutes. When he blinked awake, he decided it was time to get up, get a coffee and go back to research omens; his bones screamed in protest like he was a eighty-year-old - after all, he would never get to that old an age, might a well do it now - for being still for so long, but a hot shower would fix it.

If only everything could be so easily fixed.

Life had no intention to leave them be: a few days - and no progress - later, Sam had got back from the job in Milton, Illinois, and told him that Abaddon was building an army of demons stealing and corrupting innocent souls.

The news came as a wet blanket and had brought Dean to research even more frantically than before: he had to find Abaddon, tear her to pieces. It was the only thing that mattered.

Sam had joined him in his research, trying every now and then to act like his Jiminy Cricket and make him take a break to eat and sleep; but, when it would've once worked, there just wasn't enough closeness between them, now. There was too much tension for Sam's attempt to be seen as made out of love, too many things, said and done, that couldn't be erased anymore.

The third day after Milton, Sam got into the kitchen around eight in the morning, dressed and with his hair orderly to find his brother sitting with his laptop before a cup a coffee. He nodded his good morning, and Dean politely answered without tearing his eyes off the screen; Sam stopped and looked at him. The elder Winchester wore clean clothes, but a stubble covered his chin and dark circles were around his empty eyes, alert and focused on his computer. Sam wanted to ask him if he'd slept at all, but knew it was pointless.

"What are you looking?" he asked instead.

Dean didn't raise his head, but turned his laptop towards Sam to show what he'd found. Sam glanced over the screen: it was a forum about supernatural, and the last post was about a possible threat in Heatherfield.

It was a weak trail.

"It reliable?" Sam asked.

"It's worth a try. It's close." Anything just to do something, to move, to act.

"And it could be about Abaddon?"

Dean nodded. It was a frail hope, but Sam understood where it came from. He poured himself some coffee and drank it in silence. "Alright," he said taking his empty cup to the sink to rinse it and put it into the dishwasher with the rest of the load.

Heatherfield, Kansas was one of those towns with few citizens, where everyone knew everyone since grade school and ended up marrying their high school sweetheart. It was an hour drive south of Lebanon.

For a week, now, the idyllic town had been shaken by unexplainable events that had brought a couple to write on a supernatural website asking for help. They didn't seem to have gotten much from their attempt, but their open - or gullible, if you prefer - mind made the Winchesters' job easier, for once: no fake FBI badges, no cover story, they could be normal Ghostbusters. Or something like that.

Rose Withers opened the door with a forced smile and let them in the living room, where her husband - Ronald - shook hands with them. The woman offered them coffee and started talking: six days ago, while she was on the back yard watering the flowers, she'd noticed a lot of dead flowers, even if they'd had looked gorgeous just the day before. She'd brushed it off as unimportant, but then there had been flowers and plants and even cattle dying everywhere in the town. Ronald told them he'd researched online and found websites about how to recognize demonic passage. He'd taken those proofs to the sheriff for him to call the FBI.

"He laughed in my face, but I know I'm right," Ronald stated.

Dean raised a well, what did you expect? eyebrow and Sam elbowed him discreetly. Rose noticed, but she smiled.

"I know it sounds crazy, and we thought it at the beginning. But we recognized all the omens: electromagnetic interference, dead goats…" She stopped and her eyes become sad.

"Mrs. Withers?" Sam asked.

The woman shook her head and her husband put an arm around her shoulders.

"Our daughter, Lizzie, has vanished. Yesterday afternoon. She was in her room, I saw her climb the stairs after lunch, but when I called a few hours later she didn't answer. I looked for her, but when I got into her room I found it empty and the window open…"

"Take a look yourselves. We didn't touch anything" Ronald added seeing that his wife couldn't speak anymore.

The brothers exchanged a look and went upstairs. The girl's room looked like hundreds of other teenagers' rooms: pale pink walls, pictures of her with her friends, posters of actors and singers, stuffed toys on the bed, school books, and a backpack next to the desk. But they understood right away what her parents meant: there was a clear smell of rotten eggs and, on the windowsill, there was a yellow dust. Sam got close to examine it.

"Sulfur," he confirmed.

"Why kidnap her? What would serve a little girl to Abaddon?"

"We don't know Abaddon is involved," Sam answered.

Dean didn't even want to take that chance into account: he needed to make progress in his search. "And why not kill her parents? Why take her from her room like a random lunatic?"

"It's less conspicuous than kill off her family" the younger man speculated thinking back to when Azazel had taken him from the shop he'd entered alone: he'd waited for Sam to get out the car rather than killing Dean to take him, like when he'd taken Ava.

Dean nodded, convinced.

They got back downstairs and said goodbye to the Withers, promising they'd do everything they could to find Lizzie.

They patrolled the town, noticing the dead flowerbeds and trees. They asked around discreetly, but no-one seemed concerned about a few flowers.

"God only knows what nasty chemical they used," an old man said shaking his head.

They got to the end of the main street; there were more dead flowers.

"We gotta find what's special with this girl. What would a demon want from a normal human being?" Sam mused.

It was about a job, they were allowed to discuss jobs.

Dean shrugged.

"When we find her, we'll find out."

"Knowing why they took her will help us find her," his brother patiently pointed out.

Dean didn't answer - if because he was thinking about it or ignoring him, it wasn't clear. "Look at the flowerbeds," he said after a while pointing at the closest one. Sam raised a quizzical eyebrow. "There are many others around the Withers' place, but not on the other side."

"It's like a path," Sam completed nodding.

"That takes outside town."

"Do you have a plan?" Sam asked to break the smothering silence in the car.

Having to actually discuss the plan was sad: they'd always been able to improvise, but it wasn't a good idea trying to do that when they weren't so synchronized, these days.

"We have Ruby's knife and the Devil's Trap bullets. I get in with the gun, you cover my back. We find the girl and interview the demons. If they don't talk, we kill them."

It didn't matter that Sam was a great hunter and an adult man, it didn't even matter that that instinct of protection of Dean's was the very reason they'd fought: Dean Winchester wouldn't let his little brother to enter a room without making sure it was safe, first.

"What if the girl isn't there?"

"We ask the demons that too," was the terse answer. Sam saw a brief flash of himself exorcizing demons with his powers after torturing them to know where Lilith was - and another picture superimposed the first: Dean, unconscious and bloody in Alistair hands, next to a broken Devil's Trap and a table full of torture tools. Be shuddered and shook his head to dislodge that thought.

Among the fields before them, a big building - a warehouse - stood out. All around it, the vegetation was dead.

"It's big," Sam pointed out.

"We'll split," readily answered Dean; at that, his brother turned towards him, frowning, but Dean went on, without seeing him: "You'll take the gun - and you geek brain that knows the exorcism - while I'll take the knife. The one who finds the girl calls the other."

And it made sense, from a strategical point of view: they were both proficient in all weapons - and they had been for years, since they were an age when normal usually kids play baseball or an instrument - but, even if smaller than his huge brother, Dean was the more lethal with a knife. Also, - and Dean hoped Sam hadn't thought about it - to use a knife, you'd need to be close enough to the enemy to stab him, and that meant a bigger danger.

Sam looked back at the road before him without a word. They parked the Impala far enough from the warehouse for those inside not to hear the engine. They got close without a word, Dean with the gun, Sam with Ruby's knife. They exchanged a look and a nod, then Dean entered first, gun raised, while Sam covered his back - just as they'd planned; just as they'd always done.

Nobody. From the square room, sparsely furnished with a desk and a chair, a corridor led to the rest of the building. They proceeded holding their position until they found a fork. Cursing their luck - and, damn it, they needed to find a way to replicate the demon-killing Cold - Dean signaled for Sam to swap their weapons and split as they'd agreed. Sam didn't look too happy with that development: together they were stronger, and even if he'd agreed to that plan, he didn't like the idea of not having his brother where he could see him. Dean signaled with his watch that a lot of time had already passed since the girl had been probably taken - the longer they took, the less chance they had to find her alive. Reluctantly, Sam gave his brother the knife and took the gun, watching Dean turning left. Sighing - and preying their luck wouldn't be that bad - he turned right.

Hoping something isn't bad is the best way to make it worse, Sam told himself when, after the umpteenth turn - how the hell had that warehouse been built? - he saw two demons walking down the corridor. He wanted to take his phone and call Dean, but the pair spotted him and Sam had to fire the gun. He didn't have the time to ask them anything, though, because the noise attracted three more demons; the young Winchester had to stop them with the special bullets. He was about to call Dean when a sudden thought stopped him: if five demons could afford to wander about the building without a care, how many others were watching the hostage?

And why the hell did they take the girl?

The answer came in a form he didn't like even one bit when a sixth demon showed up.

The missing girl.

On the other side of the warehouse, Dean hadn't found anyone yet when he heard the gunshots.

"Sammy," he muttered and was about to go back when two demons approached him from behind. The hunter pivoted to stab them with Ruby's knife - damn it, he'd need to keep one alive to ask him where Abaddon was hiding - but two more came soon. He heard more shots, but he didn't have time to do anything before one of the newcomers blocked his arm while the other took a knife to stab him.

Dean managed to distract the demon holding him by suddenly bending at the waist and freed his arm enough to throw his knife towards the second demon, killing it; the bastard holding him, though, didn't let him go: it pulled him towards the stairs that led to the main area of the warehouse, a huge rectangular room full of piled up carton boxes and metal bars that'd served who know what purpose, once. Dean wiggled and kicked, but the demon just twisted and threw him down the metal stairs; Dean rolled down for a few steps, but managed to break his fall by catching hold of the banister.

Livid, he stood up, his hand on the holy water flask he kept inside the jacket and started climbing down the steps backwards and scanning the room to make sure it was safe. He looked back at the demon that had tried to kill him and saw Ruby's knife in its hand.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered.

At the foot of the stairs, he quickly considered his options: the most obvious choice would be attacking his opponent with the holy water to distract it and try to take the knife back. Problem was the demon was now possessing a guy as tall as Sam and twice as large - and that's why it managed to take me, Dean decided - and even if he knew that a demon was strong beyond the body he was possessing, Dean had no intention to try and bodily take a human tank.

The second choice he thought about was running, but he'd never let the chance to get to Abaddon go like that - and anyway, the stairs was the only way out of there.

He could try and find something to distract the demon, to hurt it, at least? He knew the only weapons that worked against demons were Ruby's - and Crowley's, now that he thought about it - knife and the lost Colt. He regretted the moment he'd decided not to take more Devil's Trap bullets, they'd be handy, but whining would take him nowhere.

Holy water it is, then.

He unscrewed the lid off the flask before taking it out and throwing it in the face of the demon before it could understand and duck; it didn't let the knife go, but screamed in pain taking its free hand to its burning face. Dean assaulted it before it could regroup, blocking its wrist and bending its hand so that the blade aimed at its stomach.

He couldn't sink it in. The demon, now furious, used its powers to free itself from the hunter - it was obvious that someone would do it, sooner or later, they couldn't be all that stupid and forget the only advantage they had - and held him against the wall; it slowly walked towards him, knife raised, a murderous look in its eyes. Alerted by the noise, or maybe by their buddy's scream, two more demons came into the room.

Although he was alone against three of them - and he was blocked against the fucking wall - Dean had no intention so back down and kept looking his enemy in the eye.

"What ya waiting for, ape man? You are blocking me, you have my knife. You even have two pals there to back you up, in case you're too stupid to do anything alone," he provoked the demon. "Abaddon desperate enough to recruit the dumbest demons? Or maybe you're not one of her thugs?" He had nothing more to lose and, maybe, he could get a few answers that way - or, maybe, he'd manage to break the demon's focus.

Yeah, right.

He hadn't heard any more shots, so Sam had got rid of all the demons he'd found - or he was… no, that wasn't possible, Sam was alive - and maybe he was coming to help him, but he dismissed the idea: they were just working partners, they were there to work, and the work wasn't done yet, they hadn't found the girl yet. Sam would've gone to look for the hostage.

Weird, the idea that he could die wasn't scary; not like the idea of losing Sam, six months ago.

"You didn't save me for me. You did it for you. You didn't want to be alone."

While his opponent was raising the knife, three things happened at the same time: Dean felt an excruciating pain shoot through his right arm, the demon's powers let him go and a scream sounded.

Dean fell to his knees and could barely make out the three demons on the floor before him - were they dead? - before sinking into the darkness.

Sam froze for a few long seconds when he saw the supposed hostage coming against him with her eyes black. He managed to shake himself and raise his gun to fire. The girl fell to her - its - knees, staring at its chest when the bullet had hit it.

"Why are you all here?" was all the young man managed to ask, but the five demons just looked at him, smirking with hatred. 'Lizzie' shook her - its - head. "I asked you why," Sam repeated, but the girl kept on grinning and looking like a maniac. "I could send you all back to Hell. Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas…"

The six demons writhed in pain, the smirks wiped off their faces, but no-one of them begged nor answered. Sam clenched his fists.

"Is it about Abaddon?" he asked interrupting the exorcism. He needed an answer. "Her fight against Crowley?" 'Lizzie' made a low, satisfied laugh. It sounded like an animal. And Sam understood: it was a trap.

They should've understood it sooner: the desperate parents asking for help on a website, the kidnapping, the dead flowers path, the smell of sulfur… it didn't make sense. But adding to the list that Abaddon knew the Winchesters were looking for the only weapon in the world that could kill her…

He recited the exorcism as quickly as he could, then turned around and ran towards the fork where they'd split up, praying Dean hadn't found any trouble - but he had, Sam was sure, 'cause otherwise he'd come to his little brother's help as soon as he'd heard the gunshots, 'cause no matter what Sam had told him, he'd never abandon his little brother in danger - praying he was ok.

He got to the fork and felt his heart sink into his stomach when he heard the inhuman cry. He took the other corridor, running, and stopped cold when he saw the three corpses next to a door that led to a metal staircase… and at the foot of the stairs was Dean, on his knees, his left hand on his right arm, his face twisted in pain.

Before him, three demons fell to the ground. Dead.

And, as if someone had cut the strings holding him up, Dean's face relaxed and he crumpled to the ground as well.

"Dean!"

Sam ran down the stairs and fell to his knees next to his brother, pressing two fingers to his neck to find a heartbeat. He sighed in relief when he felt the faint pulse under his fingers and proceeded to examine his brother's body looking for breaks, wounds.

"Dean?" he tried to rouse him, but Dean didn't answer. And… was he paler than when they'd split in the corridor or was just an impression?

He ran his fingers through Dean's short hair, looking for wounds of lumps, delicately raised his eyelids and was glad to see his pupils react to the neon light.

Sam conceded himself a moment to look around, confused. Did the demons do it? And how did they do it, if Sam had seen them collapse? The biggest one held something in his hands… Ruby's knife?

Sam snapped his eyes back to Dean and felt cold inside: Dean had been disarmed; he'd been alone against three demons, without the knife, without a damn gun with special bullets, without Sam watching his back.

We should've never split, Sam told himself, regretting that he hadn't opposed to his brother's plan.

Still, Dean had made it: he'd killed three demons on his own - without a weapon?

One thing at a time.

First, they had to get away from there: Abaddon would soon arrive to reap what she'd sown. He tried once again to rouse Dean, calling him, shaking him, but he couldn't. And was it him of Dean's skin felt warmer?

He took his phone and dialed Castiel's number.

"Cas? It's Sam. Listen: I need you to get to the bunker ASAP. It's Dean…"

He didn't need to say anything more; Castiel promised him he'd be there as soon as possible and hung up. Sam hoped Cas wasn't too far, and sighing pocketed his phone and got to the problem at hand: how could he get his unconscious brother out of there? Albeit like three inches shorter than him, Dean was anything but small: climbing stairs, walking through the long corridor and the distance between the warehouse and the Impala wouldn't be easy for Sam with the added weight of his brother.

He took Ruby's knife and put it into his jeans back pocket; he then tried one last time to rouse Dean and then got started on his arduous job. He maneuvered his brother in a comfortable position to lift him on his shoulders, then slowly got to his feet to balance the weight. He turned trying not to sway, raised his gun with his free hand and started on the long path.

He got to the Impala without finding any more demons, and opened the back door of the car to carefully lay his brother on the backseat, bending his legs to make him fit; he then climbed behind the wheel and started the car.

I need to learn and plot the stories in chapters. This way I wouldn't find myself with a second chapter five pages longer than chapter one XD

The line from the show is from episode 9x13

I hope you enjoyed this first part. Please, let me know what you think! :D