Okay, you are going to need to be patient with me on this story. I have been busy working on another Supernatural/Hardy Boys crossover, along with a halloween contest Hardy Boys submission, so I have not had as much time to write on this one as I would like - plus the boys were just not wanting to work with me on this. For some reason Dean has been having a lot of fun tormenting poor Frank Hardy and was reluctant to deal with the werewolves...

However, I know you are waiting - and I do appreciate the little 'nudges' I have been getting (I love you guys and you know who you are) because they have reminded me that people are waiting. So here is the first chapter. I will try to update with some regularity but until I get a few more chapters ahead than I am now, I can't promise you when. Anyways, I hope you enjoy the start of the sequel... it starts right at the end of 'All the King's Horses'

Phoenix

All the King's Men

Chapter 1

Dean jumped when he felt a cool hand on his forehead. "Geez, Dad," he complained when he saw the worried face of his father hovering mere inches from his own. "Give a guy a heart attack, why don't'cha?"

"You're warm," was his father's gruff reply and Dean rolled his eyes.

"State the obvious," he muttered and then glanced past the older hunter towards Father Jim Murphy as the priest pulled off his heavy coat and gloves and hung them up. The cleric and his father must have just gotten in from salting and burning the remains of the monkey like creature that had had its heart set on a Sammy banana. He tugged at the collar of his shirt trying to loosen it. "Father Jim's trying to heat up the friggin' whole state."

Shifting uncomfortably away from his father, Dean stifled a groan as a shard of pain shot right up his tail bone. Man, he'd had better days.

"Actually," Jim moved past the couch where Sam was still sleeping – drugged more accurately – to stand next to John. The two men towered over the sitting hunter. "It isn't warm in here at all." He leaned over and scrutinized Dean carefully, "You're flushed."

Dean scowled but didn't say anything, a bit creeped out to be under such close scrutiny. A bug under a microscope came to mind – a large Dean shaped bug. 'Oh God, I'm delirious', he thought even as he started to protest, "I'm fine." His father's frown stopped him. "What?"

"Dean," John started with tried patience. He'd had better days too. "You're sick."

Trying for indignant was ruined when Dean broke into a harsh cough that had his father raising an eyebrow questioningly. Struggling to speak when he finally stopped coughing, the young man started to refute the obvious when a slurred voice interrupted from the couch.

"Dean'll want his teddy flannels…"

All eyes turned towards Sam as the incoherent young man struggled to open his eyes.

"Excuse me, son?" John moved towards Sam not quite sure what the younger man was talking about. Behind him Dean groaned and leaned over, lowering his head gingerly into his hands.

"Oh God," he muttered, "shoot me now." 'Morphine Sam' was back.

"You 'member," Sam slurred, addressing his father. "Dean's jammies… when he's sick."

Suddenly an image so vivid, Dean was sure it was projected across the room hit him and he knew exactly what Sam was mumbling about.

Eleven year old Dean Winchester huddled on the end of the couch, wrapped in a thick warm blanket and wearing his favorite pair of pajamas. Old, worn and barely fitting him anymore, Dean still sought them out for comfort whenever he was sick… at one time they were brightly colored flannel with a teddy bear motif but too many washes later, they had pretty much faded to dull variations of gray.

When he was thirteen, his father snuck them out of Dean's drawer and burned them. It really was for the best…

And now, thirteen years later, Sam had resurrected them.

Dean would have glared at his brother if he thought it would have helped.

"Well Sammy, son," John spoke patiently as he reached out to brush the dark bangs back from his sons face, apparently remembering them as well, "I don't think they'll fit him very well now." It never ceased to amaze Dean, how much patience his father could have at times… "Dean's a big boy now."

Sam snickered, actually snickered at that and Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah… yeah he was."

"Was? Was?" Chagrined, Dean held up a finger trying to insert himself into the conversation. "What's this 'was' shit -" Father Jim quirked an eyebrow and the younger man amended, knowing that now the danger of the hunt was over, he expected Dean to mind his tongue. The priest was rather quirky that way. "Stuff."

Sam sighed as he closed his eyes and mumbled. "Oh God. I'm hearing voices now."

"Voices?" Dean looked at his father and Jim, not as amused as they apparently were. "What do you mean you're hearing voices, Sammy? I'm right here."

The younger man ignored him, pushing down on the blanket that covered him and struggling to sit up. John gently moved to stop him. "Sammy. What are you doing?"

"I gotta go," came a miserable gasp as Sam looked up at his father, his wide eyes glassy and unfocused. He shifted against John's grip.

"Whoa easy there," John glanced at Jim and the priest smiled warmly at the distressed young man.

"Give me a second," he said to Sam, "And then me and your Dad will help you to the bathroom -" his words broke off as the injured hunter shook his head. "No?"

"No," Sam repeated. "Dean."

Dean's eyes widened in horror.

"Sammy," again John's patience surprised his older son, "your brother is sick. We'll help you." He nodded to the cleric to go ahead and do whatever needed to be done before they brought Sam to the bathroom. Jim quickly moved down the hall.

The youngest Winchester blinked owlishly at his father, his face puckered in confusion. "Dean? Sick?"

"Yeah, Dean is sick," behind them, Dean rolled his eyes but let it slide.

"Oh."

Dean blinked. That was a rather unexpected reaction.

After a heartbeat, Sam continued, leaning back against the couch again. "S'okay then. I can wait."

The start of a tension headache crept across Dean's forehead – he recognized this game. Although this time it really wasn't a game. Somehow it seemed that 'Morphine' Sam had regressed back to 'Terrible' Sam in the Great Winchester showdown. Or that is what Dean had dubbed the period of two years when Sam had refused to let their father help him with anything, insisting instead that only Dean could help.

It had bothered their father to no end and aggravated the shit out of Dean as while he didn't usually mind taking care of Sam, he hated his brother's insistence on having him do it when their father was around.

After all their father was… well 'Dad'.

"Oh brother," he hissed, "here we go again."

"Can wait?" a trying note in John's voice told Dean that their 'old man' remembered the game as well. "Wait for what? Your body to turn septic and you pass out? Sam, Dean is sick. Sick. He's out of the game for a bit, son."

Sam blinked. "Games?" He shook his head and chastised the older man. "Dean can't play games, Dad. He's sick."

As John's shoulders tensed, Dean couldn't help the snicker that snuck out and he quickly tried to smother his grin when his father whipped his head around to glare at him. Dean cocked an eyebrow at him.

It was nice trying 'Morphine Sam' on someone else.

"Dad," Sam was speaking again and Dean smirked at the familiar flash of fear on his father's face before John schooled his features and then turned back to his youngest son.

"Yes, son?"

Dean couldn't wait. He knew, from experience, that this was going to be good.

"I hate when Dean's sick."

'Oh no,' Dean inwardly groaned. 'Sucker punched again.'

John cast a meaningful look at his oldest son even as he addressed his youngest, patting one of his hands consolingly. "Me too, son… me too…"

"I get it," Dean shoved himself to his feet. "I get it. I'll go lie down. I'll take my medicine-" he grimaced, "with a spoon. Anything you want. Just, please…" he indicated his brother, "just turn him off!"

John chuckled softly. His boys would never know how much he loved them…

"Dean," Sam's slurring voice caught his brother in the hall.

"Yeah, Sammy?" He moved across to look down at his brother, noting with relief that the kid didn't look as pale now.

Sam glanced at his father and then indicated for him to come closer. It was obvious that whatever he wanted to say to his brother was something he didn't want their father to overhear.

Amused, John drew back to give his sons a moment of privacy.

Dean leaned in close and Sam reached up, snagged his shirt and pulled him in closer.

"Ah Dean…" he asked, hesitantly and then, once more checking out where their father was, he whispered hoarsely, urgency driving courage. "I really gotta go!" His hazel eyes were so wide and needy Dean felt his resolve slipping. "Please!" That was it. The older man was done for.

He gave the injured young hunter a resigned smile. "Okay, kiddo. I'll take you."

…

When Father Jim came back in the room to help John, he was surprised to see, instead of John and Sam hobbling towards him, it was Dean and Sam.

Although, in hindsight, he knew he never should have been.

And then he burst out laughing as halfway down the hall he heard Sam's loud voice. "Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I can write my name in the snow."

"Wonderful, Sammy."

"You wanna see?"

A pause that doubled the priest over.

"Ah… No."

"Hey, Dean?"

"What?"

"I can make milk come out of my nose."

"Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean."

"Shut up and pee."

Next chapter: Friday