Sam nervously considered John before standing.

"There's a study group, tomorrow. Can I go?" he blurted out.

John slowly sat back and considered Sam. "And skip training?" he asked.

"Just for the day. There's a big test coming up," Sam explained quickly.

"I don't think so."

Sam opened his mouth to argue and then snapped it shut, glancing back towards the bedroom where Dean was doing research. Defeated, he turned away. The truce wouldn't last that much longer, the way they were headed. At least it had gone a week.

"Boys, go get your running done," John called, loud enough for Dean to hear.

"C'mon, Sammy, let's go."

Sam pulled on his tennis shoes unwillingly. Normally, running was his favorite part of training—if he was to psychoanalyze himself, it would have to do with freedom or some such inner desire—but not with a side that was still painful and sore, even after five days.

As they escaped the motel room, Sam came up close to Dean. "Can we take it easy today? I'm tired."

"You wimping out on me?" Dean teased.

Sam, unwilling to play, nodded. It didn't take much to let his face look a bit miserable. He was in pain, after all.

"How 'bout we go to the creek?"

Sam nodded reluctantly. The creek was just that, a creek, but it was also where everyone hung out after school.

"I thought you didn't like hanging out with high schoolers anymore?" Sam asked.

"I can deal," Dean said easily. Which meant he was doing this for Sam, and Sam was really not in the mood.

A couple of kids were passing alcohol back and forth, and Sam nodded to them. They ignored him.

"Dad'll be able to tell we haven't run," he turned to Dean and said.

Dean smirked. "Not if I dunk you in the creek."

He was suddenly grabbed around the middle and thrown into the deepest part of the creek. Sam rose with a splutter and a pained gasp. Dean was grinning at him from the bank, and Sam scowled at him deliberately. Then he noticed his schoolmates snickering and flushed in embarrassment, stumbling to his feet.

Dean had noticed the high schoolers as well, and was glaring at them.

"C'mon, Sam." He didn't go near the others, but his hand twitched like he wanted to go for his gun.

The cold of the water contrasted sharply with the burning pain in Sam's side. There was a reason no one swam during the fall.

"Dude, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking," Dean apologized as soon as they were far enough away. "Let's get you home, huh?"

Sam shivered. "But . . ."

"Don't worry about dad. This one's on me, little brother." Dean slung an arm around Sam's shoulder, rubbing his chilled arm.

"I want hot chocolate," Sam demanded.

"You got it."

John watched his boys suspiciously as Dean waited on Sam, fetching him everything from blankets to his books. He didn't buy for one second that they had decided to jog by the creek—more likely they had decided to skip out on running altogether, thus the roughhousing resulting in Sam's dunking that Dean had blithely said was all his fault.

"Dean, did you finish your research?"

Dean jumped up from Sam's bedside. "Yessir."

"How far's the hunt from here?" John asked mildly, though he already knew himself. Needed to keep Dean thinking on his toes, though, for when he was hunting on his own.

"Bout a forty-five minute drive. Longer on the way back, 'cuz there's a bar," Dean returned smartly. John gave him a warning glance while suppressing a smile.

"Right. Think we can take care of it this weekend?" John had picked their location specifically because it was close to a bunch of cases. Not a supernatural hot spot, just bad luck. He had recently won a bunch of money in a very high stakes poker game, and that plus the fake credit cards would hold them over for some time. John hoped to get several decent hunts accomplished before having to grab a job again.

Dean opened his mouth to answer, but Sam interrupted by sneezing violently and groaning afterwards.

"You have any brains left?" Dean called, distracted from the case. John frowned slightly.

"Shad'up."

Sam sounded congested, and John readjusted his plans.

"Getting sick, Sammy?" Dean had noticed as well.

Sam grumbled and burrowed under the covers.

"Looks like we'll be taking care of the hunt ourselves," John said.

Dean snapped his gaze onto John. "We're leaving Sam here by himself?"

John raised an eyebrow. "He'll call in sick tomorrow, we have food in the fridge. He'll be fine."

"I don't . . ." Dean bit his lip and glanced over his shoulder towards the bedroom.

"We're going, Dean," John said flatly. "This ghost has already gotten two people killed. No need for any more."

"Yessir," Dean mumbled and slid back into the bedroom. John stood clandestinely and moved closer to the door without making a sound.

"You hear that, Sammy?" Dean's voice was soft, but still carried.

"Uh huh." Sam sniffed loudly. "I'll be fine, Deab. Jus leabe me the remote."

"Okay, moron. But you better be okay when I get back."

"You too," Sam managed before sneezing again.

Sam shoved his face into the pillow and tried not to feel sorry for himself. It was hard, though, with the silent motel room (aside from the noisy couple on the other side of the wall) and how cold he was. Well, except for his side. That was burning.

Sam shifted uneasily, raising a shaky hand to rub at his forehead.

Something was wrong. He should call Dean.

"Don't be so useless."

Sam snapped his head around to stare at his mother.

"I'm sorry," he slurred.

"You think I died so you could be such a burden?"

Sam felt hot tears fall down his cheeks as he shook his head. "I'm sorry," he told his mother. At least, he was pretty sure it was her. He only had one picture of her, after all.

"I'm dead because of you."

The words were in his father's voice, even though it came from his mother's mouth, and Sam vaguely remembered John getting drunk last year and saying the same thing.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. He felt hot, now, all of him, especially his side. That wasn't good.

His mother approached, and Sam lost his train of thought, tracking her movements. She burst into flames and he flinched. Everything fractured and fell away into heat and fire.

John shifted uncomfortably in his mud-filled clothes and sighed. No stopping at the bar on the way back—the swamp monster had turned out to be a mud-slinging monkey. A supernatural monkey, but still. What kind of monkey was hanging out in the USA in a lake?

"You should call Sammy." Dean's fingers were tight on the wheel, and John glanced at him speculatively.

"He's probably sleeping."

Dean shifted, his mud-caked leaving smears on the seat. "I know."

"You need to stop coddling him, Dean," John said flatly. "He's old enough to take care of himself."

Dean's shoulders hunched up close to his ears. "Don't mean he should have to," he muttered.

"Doesn't," John corrected absently. "You two are far too wrapped up in each other. Sam cutting deals to let you have a break, you leaping to get him whatever he wants . . ."

"Cutting deals?" Dean asked sharply.

John pursed his lips at his own mess-up. That was alright, though. Wasn't like the pact would've lasted much longer. "Sam wanted a truce between the two of us so you could catch a break."

Dean's face, for once, was open and surprised. "So that's why you two have played nice," he said after a moment. "Shoulda known something was up."

John shrugged and felt the dried mud flake off of his shoulders. "It's worked for a little while, but I don't think it's gonna stick," he said honestly. It was far easier to be honest with Dean than Sam, and John winced at the thought.

"Mmm." Dean made a non-committal sound. Thankfully, they pulled into the motel soon after, and John breathed a sigh of relief

"Sammy?" Dean knew how much Sam hated to be called that, but sometimes he couldn't help himself. "Limited time offer on making fun of how dirty we got on this hunt. You are one lucky dog." He flicked on the bedroom light. And stopped.

Sam was twisting in mangled sheets, muttering brokenly and dazedly.

Dean cursed loudly and shouted for his dad, rushing forward to Sam.

"Hey, Sam. Sammy, I'm here, I'm so sorry we left, just look at me, okay?"

Sam was too far gone, and the part of Dean that was calm and focused during hunts was freaking out.

When their dad came in the room he swore just as violently as Dean had, coming over and laying his hand on Sam's forehead.

"Get him in the Impala, Dean, this looks bad."

Dean blanched. "Hospital bad?"

John was collecting his wallet and shrugging on a clean jacket. "He isn't sweating anymore, Dean. Hurry."

Dean swallowed convulsively. "C'mon, Sammy," he coaxed, maneuvering his sixteen-year old brother with some difficulty. Thankfully Sam's gangly physique meant he wasn't too heavy. "Y'know I'm gonna give you so much grief about making me carry you like this."

Sam cried out and thrashed as Dean curled his arm around Sam's ribs. Dean jerkily set him back on the bed and pulled up his shirt.

"Dad," he gasped. Three lines of red marked his failure as a brother. Three lines that were inflamed and sore-looking. Infected. His dad scowled and motioned Dean to bring him.

Without another word, Dean gathered Sam into his arms, ignoring Sam's pained whimper with some difficulty.

"Dude, what have I said about keeping secrets? It's stupid. This is me calling you stupid, you gonna stand for that?"

He scooted into the back of the Impala, Sam in his arms, panting.

"Drive, Dad," he commanded. Sam's skin was hot to the touch, and Dean stroked his forehead, ignoring the fact that his own hands were trembling.

"Don't give up on me, Sammy. Hang in there."

Sam shifted, the sheets feeling strange and too-clean.

"Sammy, you back with me?" Sam relaxed at Dean's voice.

"Mmm." Sam managed to hum. He tried to speak, but his voice was lost in the dryness of his throat.

"Open up." Ice was slid between his lips, and Sam took it with relief.

"How you feeling, kiddo?"

"Awful," Sam rasped.

"That's what you get for hiding an infection." Dean's voice was sharp, but Sam could still hear the concern lying underneath it.

He managed to crack an eye open. "Sorry," he whispered.

"Yeah, you should be." Dean looked tired and worried, but quirked his lips up as Sam met his gaze.

"Hunt?" Sam asked after a moment.

"A mud monkey. Literally. I'll tell you about it later, dude. You focus on getting better, okay?"

"Mmkay." Sam felt Dean's hand on his forehead and his eyes slid shut by their own volition.

"What's with the deal with Dad, huh?" Dean spoke up after a moment, when Sam still hadn't fallen asleep.

"You looked tired," Sam mumbled. "Wanted to give you a break."

"Tired of what?"

"Being in the middle."

"Yeah, well, don't worry about that, okay? I can take care of myself," Dean said softly.

"Doesn't mean you should have to take care of us, too." Sam struggled to stay awake. Somehow this conversation seemed important.

"You used to think I was Superman. Not anymore, huh?" Dean sounded oddly wistful.

"Superman had days off," Sam slurred. He cracked one eye open. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Sleep, Sammy."

"Jerk."

Sam was probably imagining it, but he thought he felt lips press briefly on his forehead. He did, however, hear the whispered pet name, and smiled as he drifted off.

A/N: Finis! Just a small fluff (with some angst, because you can't have pre-series without some implied angst) fic because a lot of the ones I have in the works are painful and John may or may not be the badguy. I apologize.

Anyway, off for fall break, so until sometime next week, once all of my essays are turned in. (don't you hate getting assignments over break? it's like, what's the point of a break? UGH).