Set after the Season Two Finale. Contains spoilers.

Summary: Yellow eyes is dead. Dean's on borrowed time. Sam hasn't had a vision since. Things are looking up for the Winchester brothers... or so they thought. They should have realised nothing is ever that simple and that Winchester bad luck is nothing if not persistant.

Authors note: I started writing this immediately after the season finale in May. I got about 50,000 words in and was ready to scrap the entire thing as junk, sell my computer on ebay and throw the towel in all together. I have to admit I was feeling a little weird about my writing and I still am but then someone gave me some wonderful advice. I cant thank her enough for that. So I've decided to pick this story back up and see what happens. I cant promise to have chapters out in a hurry as I'm part way through my finals at uni but I'll try and update as regularly as possible.

Thank you to Ridley C James who found my muse and dragged her back kicking and screaming. I appreciate your help. Your words certainly did not fall on deaf ears.

Chapter One:

Beginnings

South Dakota, 2007

The rain had started an hour ago.

It had begun as light spattering but now it came down in heavy inky droplets, hammering offensively on the roof of the car, smearing down the windows in tear trails. Sam’s foot was to the floor, rapidly pumping the gas to gain speed as the Impala screamed up the highway, the wipers flicking back and forth like a demented insect. The engine was screaming with protest at being pushed so fast but Sam ignored it and maintained the pressure on the peddle. Speed was of the essence.

He didn’t care about getting pulled over by the cops. He didn’t care about the rain. He didn’t care that he had under cut at least five cars and nearly aquaplaned into the central reservation twice. He didn’t even care that his brother would probably kill him for handling his beloved car like a friggin’ go-kart. At the moment none of that was important. What was important was getting his brother some help as quickly as possible.

They were still a good twenty minutes from salvation. Sam hoped Dean could hold out that long. He prayed to god that someone upstairs would cut them a fucking break for once and let this whole mess work out. If Winchester luck was anything to go by it was unlikely but Sam continued to repeat the silent prayer anyway. It didn't hurt to cover all bases.

Sam glanced over to the passenger seat and couldn’t help the fear that crept into his mind. Dean was slumped against the door, his face pale, a sheen of perspiration covering his already pallid skin. He was holding Sam’s rolled up shirt against his side but Sam could tell it was already heavily saturated with blood.

Dean’s blood.

That thought scared him.

The younger Winchester swallowed hard, forcing the bile that crept up his throat back down.

“You ok?” Sam demanded, unable to keep the shake out of his voice. It was a ridiculous question but Sam needed to hear his brothers voice. He needed to know he was still with him. He needed the reassurance that everything hadn't gone completely to hell in a barrel.

“Fine Sammy.” Dean slurred, gazing at him through half mast slits. Sam couldn’t help but think he looked anything but fine and tried to ignore the black smudges that rimmed his older siblings eyes. Unfocused and confused but still alive. That was enough - for now.

It was a damn miracle Dean wasn’t dead.

It had been close.

“Just hold on, Dean.” Sam muttered, dragging his eyes back to the road.

Things had gotten out of control quickly. Sam barely remembered the details of the hunt that had left his brother bleeding in his arms, he only knew that within seconds things had taken a swan dive into chaos and, as usual, it was Dean who had taken the brunt of it.

Sam risked a glance at his brother once more, almost afraid that he would slip away from him if he wasn’t watching. The older mans chest fluttered rapidly as he struggled to drag ragged breaths into his damaged lungs. Sam winced at the way Dean’s brow was tightly drawn, pain evident in his expression. He wanted to give his brother respite from his pain - offer him some kind of relief - but the couple of Tylenol he had forced into Dean’s hand fifteen minutes ago didn’t appear to be doing anything to curtail his discomfort.

The aggressive honking of a horn forced Sam back to the real world. Snapping his eyes back to the road the younger Winchester realised the Impala had deviated into the adjacent lane and swung the wheel sharply to the left to counteract the move. He narrowly avoiding hitting the vehicle that was inches from the hood and swore. He was grateful the car had such good handling.

“Christ Sam…” Dean muttered thickly as he was jerked into the side door. Sam winced again, muttering an apology under his breath as he struggled to control his thumping heart.

“We’re nearly there. Just hold on, Dean.” Sam meant it to be reassuring but it came out more like a pleading invocation.

He sounded weak and pathetic even to his own ears.

Sam wasn't the protector. He wasn't used to fixing things. Dean was always picking him back up. Sam didn't have a clue how the older man coped. He was coming apart at the seams. He couldn't imagine what would happen if they didn't get help soon. Dean was going to be taken from him in eleven months time and one damn poltergeist was about to take those precious months away too early. Sam's stomach clenched painfully and he forced himself to push the thought away, focusing his attention on the road. Last thing they needed was to be wrapped around a street light.

It was with a sigh of relief that Sam pulled onto the familiar dirt track thirteen minutes later, his driving resembling something out of nascar racing. The back wheels spun out, tossing grit and sodden mud into the air as he released the brake and flung his foot back onto the accelerator, speeding up towards the iron railings that surrounded the house.

The young man gave the sign above the gates a brief glance. He had never been so grateful to see the words Singers Salvage Yard in his entire life. He knew help lay within. He knew if he could just make those few meters everything would be ok. It had to be -the alternative didn't bear thinking about.

Screeching to a halt just before the front door, Sam had barely pulled the parking brake up before he was out of the car. His body screamed at him for the sudden movement. He didn’t care. He would deal with his own injuries later. For now the only thought in his mind was helping his brother.

Ignoring the rain he carefully opened the passenger door and braced himself as Dean slid fully into his arms like a fish flapping around on dry land. Sprawling limbs tangled around his own lanky frame, dragging both brothers onto the wet ground. Sam struggled with the weight, trying to liberate his arms and legs from underneath Dean’s body with little avail. He was exhausted and hurt. He didn’t have any more strength to offer his brother.

He wanted to scream with frustration, ordering his heavy appendages to move but his body would not comply. Paralysed under the weight of his six foot one brother, Sam's chest ached with the pressure building on his torso and his shoulder burned painfully. He felt helpless and useless and the two emotions only added to his overall anger at the situation.

“C’mon Dean, a little help here, bro.” Sam muttered, readjusting his grip on his brothers muscular frame, shaking dark, sodden curls from his eyes.

Sam's tshirt clung to him like a second skin as the rain continued her relentless assault, seemingly indifferent to their plight and the younger Winchester tried to ignore the moisture that was seeping through his jeans, into his frozen muscles but he couldn’t stop the shivers. He was freezing to death whilst Dean slowly bled out on top of him.

A groan of pain escaped from the older hunter’s lips which only heightened Sam's anxiety further. Dean never complained when he was hurt. He played the tough guy routine far too well – he had done it for too many years. The fact that Dean was acknowledging he was in pain frightened Sam. It must have been bad.

“Sam?”

The new voice brought Sam’s head up so fast it spun. Even in the darkness he recognised the figure leering over him as Bobby Singer. The mechanic was already crouching down next to the two brothers, water dripping off the edge of his baseball cap.

“What the hell happened?”

There was a crack of authority in the voice that reminded Sam of his father and for a moment he wanted the man in question to appear. He had never wanted anything so much in his entire life. John could fix this. John would have made things right. John would have meant Sam wasn't completely alone. But Sam knew John would not come. He had been dead for almost a year. The maudlin thoughts continued to plague his overwrought mind until -

"Sam?" The man spoke again.

“Dean. He's…” Sam’s throat suddenly felt dry and talking hurt but Bobby didn’t need to hear any more. He had already pulled his shoulder under Dean’s armpit and, with surprising strength, was dragging him to his feet.

Dean groaned as the older hunter moved him, glassy green eyes fluttering opening. Sam saw nothing but pain in his expression and cringed.

"Get the other side, son." Bobby ordered, shifting his body to take Dean's weight better.

It was all the younger Winchester needed to get moving again. Struggling to his feet, disregarding the shaking in his legs, Sam took Dean’s other side and helped guide his brother.

The walk to the house seemed excruciatingly slow and Sam’s knees were nearly touching the floor by the time they reached the steps up to the building. Every inch of him screamed in protest but Sam would not relent to his pain or exhaustion. He could not give up on his brother. Dean would never give up on him. He took a shuddering breath and found the strength to put one foot in front of the other and together Sam and Bobby navigated the hunter into the living room.

The room was lit by a couple of lamps scattered absently around the small space casting a warm glow that seemed completely out of place given the current turmoil. Wall to wall bookcases were crammed full of books ranging from general histories to demonology to the occult whilst two low backed couches filled the intervening space and were offset by a couple of square tables. The familiarity of the place did nothing to ease Sam's stress levels.

The two men, dragging Dean between them, made the short space across the floor in three steps and lowered the hunter onto the nearest chair. Sam cringed inwardly at the moan that Dean emitted as his broken body folded onto the sofa. He hadn’t imagined anyone could make that kind of sound, let alone his own brother. It sounded so primitive, almost animalistic. Sam wanted to put him out of his misery right there. He wanted to heal Dean's hurts but he could not. Dean's fate rested in the hands of Singer for now.

Stepping back to give Bobby the space to work Sam sank against the wall, his exhausted body hitting the floor hard as the mechanic opened his first aid kit. Bobby had seen his fair share of wounds and Sam trusted the man to fix his brother. He had fixed worse.

Dean’s breath was now coming out in heavy rags, each inhale less controlled than the forced exhale. As if sensing his younger brothers turmoil Dean tugged his bottom lip between his teeth as if trying to hold back a cry.

Unable to bring himself to even look at Dean, Sam lowered his eyes to the floor, dragging a bloodied and bruised hand through his hair. His adrenaline tank had reached empty and he could feel every ache and bruise anew. Knees drawn up to his chest he wrapped his uninjured arm around his torso and shivered uncontrollably.

“Jesus Christ, Dean! Can’t you and Sam stay out of trouble for five minutes? You really did a number on yourself here, son.” Bobby exclaimed, fumbling with the older Winchester's bloodied shirt.

Sam felt his eyes on him and glanced up to meet the gaze being directed at him.

“What the hell happened, son?” Bobby was directing his gaze between the brothers and Sam felt like a gold fish facing a piranha.

“Bad salt and burn.” Sam replied quietly, his eyes returning to the floor.

That was the understatement of the century. Everything about the damn case had gone south from the moment they had taken it. The research had hit brick wall after brick wall. The location had been in the middle of nowhere. The cabin itself had been rotted and unsafe. The research had gone to hell... The list was exhaustive.

Sam closed his eyes as Dean moaned again. He wasn't sure how much more he could take. Ultimately he was responsible for this and his inner demons seemed to taunt him relentlessly. He had screwed up and now Dean was injured - badly.

“That hurt?” Bobby asked, his attention back on the older Winchester.

“W - what d’ya think?” Dean responded breathlessly. Despite that there was a bite in his tone. Sam didn’t need to see his face to know he was pissed off. It eased his tension a little. If Dean was annoyed then things couldn't be that bad.

“Your neck’s a mess, kid, but I don’t think you’re permanently damaged. I’m pretty damn sure you’ve busted a couple of ribs though.” Bobby said finally.

“They heal?” Dean asked through gritted teeth.

“In time. But you’ll have to take it easy. I’m more worried about this gash.”

“Just patch it up.” Dean told him, his voice drained.

“It’s pretty deep. I don't think you hit anything vital but you lost a lot of blood. You’re gonna have to take it easy for a while.”

That was a given. Dean would already be dead if the damn wound had hit something vital. Sam could at least be grateful that tonight hadn't gone a whole lot worse.

“I'm okay.” Dean assured the man and even despite the slur in his voice it was said with such conviction that Sam almost believed him -almost.

“Sam…?” Dean’s voice hitched and Sam felt his breath catch in his throat. Slowly he pushed himself to his feet, careful to avoid putting any weight on his injured shoulder and moved closer to the couch.

He tried to focus on his brother's face but his eyes were inexorably drawn to his body. Dean's chest was a smattering of newly formed bruises located mainly around his ribcage and neck. Bobby was frantically pushing gauze onto the deep gash to his left side that had not only soaked through his shirt but also the top of his jeans. Three pieces of gauze were already heavily stained crimson and the fourth piece was beginning to show red blots inking through.

Dean winced as Bobby applied more pressure to the wound, blood oozing uncontrollably from underneath the material, dripping down his pale skin onto the couch. The fact it was still bleeding worried Sam. It should have stopped by now. He wasn't sure how much more blood Dean could lose. He looked like shit as it was.

Not that Sam looked much better.

His shoulder was dislocated and hung at a odd angle. He had thick scratches down his cheek accentuated by crusted dried blood that marred his pale skin. His throat and face were bruised black and his left eye was swollen so badly he could barely crack it open. In fact he was pretty sure he had bruises in places that he didn’t know could bruise but somehow the younger man couldn’t bring himself to complain about his own wounds. Not when Dean was lying there, beaten to crap and bleeding all over the place.

“You okay?” Dean asked after a moment, composing himself. Sam noticed the effort it took, noticed the tremble of the older man's body but didn't comment on it.

Even after everything that had happened Dean had asked that. He cared more about his little brothers wellbeing than his own. It had always been that way but Sam felt unworthy of that attention tonight. Sam felt guilt gnawing away at him. He should have found a way to prevent this.

"Sammy?" Dean repeated.

Sam didn’t speak –couldn’t speak. He didn’t know what to say. There was no apology that could fix this. There was nothing to say. He had screwed up and they were both paying for it now. Instead he continued to stare at his brother’s injured body, mentally cataloguing every bruise, every cut, every inch of his damaged skin. He had caused them all.

“Sam?” Dean repeated a little more forcefully this time, wanting his brother to speak. To say anything. His silence was unnerving and the tension in the room was stifling.

“I’m sorry.” Sam whispered finally. Dean fixed him with a quizzical stare.

“For what?”

Sam merely nodded at his injuries, unable to meet his brothers gaze. Dean rolled his eyes.

“Not even close to being your fault, Sammy.”

“I know but I should have-“

Dean interrupted him.

“Should have what? There was nothing either of us could have done differently. This wasn't your fault man.”

Bobby glanced between the two boys, scowled and reached into his kit for another gauze pack.

“As wonderful as it is watching you both pass the book between each other can you do this later before you bleed to death?” Bobby demanded, tugging at the packaging until it gave in, granting him access to the material that lay inside.

Sam frowned at the reprimand but Dean managed a sheepish look, even though it was layered with a grimace.

Bobby was muttering something inaudible under his breath as he continued to set up his supplies. Gauze, normal saline, a set of sterile clamps and a packet of surgical thread lined the low table to his left. No doctor could have had better equipment under the circumstances.

The mechanic pushed Dean's hand gently onto the fresh bandage over the wound and got to his feet. He moved over to the sideboard, returning a moment later with a bottle of honey coloured whiskey.

Sam cringed. The good stuff was only broken out on certain occasions. This was going to be bad.

“Here," Bobby handed Dean a bottle. The hunter took it with a shaky hand, green eyes seeking out the older mans. “Drink it, kid. This is gonna hurt like hell.”

Sam had to hand it to his brother. If he was apprehensive about what was to come he didn't show it. His schooled features - didn’t let one readable emotion slide onto the radar as he took a long swig. Once he had finished, Bobby took the bottle from him and twisted to place it on the table.

Armed with the thread he turned back to the hunter and gave him a small reassuring smile.

"I'll make it quick." He promised. "You ready?"

Dean chose not to articulate, his jaw tightening as he nodded to let him know he could start.

His older sibling didn’t make a sound as Bobby inserted the first stitch but Sam noticed he had pulled his lip between his teeth, blood continuing to spew from the wound like geyser. Sam had to admire his stamina. Stitches were never pleasant, especially on a wound that deep. Hopefully the stitches would halt the bleeding. It was all they could do at the moment. Dean needed a hospital, a surgeon, probably a full laparotomy, but that wasn't an option. There was too much risk. Being on the F.B.I's most wanted list certainly had its downsides. Not that Sam wouldn't do it if it came down to it. He would not lose his brother yet. He had promised he would save him and he would. A bad hunt wasn't going to stop that.

Sam focused on Bobby’s face so he didn’t have to see his brothers pained expression.

This was a mess.