Disclaimer: YES MINE! ALLLLL MINE! SEE!?!?! -whips open closet door and points to nothing- HEY! THEY WERE HERE JUST A SECOND AGO!!!! -men in white coats come and drag SkyBlade away while she mutters dazedly "gone... cute demon hunters all gone...!"-

Author's note: I'm making the jump. -looks down cliff face, cringes and shuts eyes before reaching back to check parachute- I'm finally writing a Limp!Sam. I think. -opens one eye and looks down the gazillion feet to the bottom. (give or take.)- AHHHH maybe not!...Ok, enough stalling, I think I can, I think I can...

Another Author's note: Well it is true, I am finally attempting a Limp!Sam. Just to give you an idea of what I'm planning, Second Impact Syndrome is when someone sustains a second concussion while a previous one is still healing. It is often fatal. If you haven't yet figured it out, I'll help you out a bit. 19-year-old Dean+ Pushy John+15-year-old Sam+Second Impact Syndrome equals...? Limp!Sam!! If you still haven't figured it out, ask JJ Phoenix. She has been my faithful encourager. (THANKS!)

Dean pulled up to the curb of the local high school and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, impatiently scanning the crowds of loud students for his 15-year-old geek of a brother. He spotted Sam coming out the front doors with an armload of thick books, chattering animatedly with 2 girls and 3 other guys. Sam lifted his head and saw Dean, who waved at him to hurry up. Sam turned and hastily said goodbye to his group before walking to the Impala. Sam pulled open the door and slid in next to Dean.

"Hey Sammy, how was school?" Dean pulled away from the curb.

Sam shot him a glare that faded into an excited smile. "It's SAM. And my debate team got picked to go to state!"

Dean treated his brother to a proud grin. "That's great, Sammy!" It was proof of how happy Sam was when he didn't correct the use of his hated baby name again. Dean knew how hard Sam had worked with his team, sacrificing hours each week, giving up every spare moment for his debate practices-sometimes without John Winchester's knowledge. Personally, Dean didn't see the point of standing around in a big room, arguing back and forth about some controversial issue or another…but then again, he didn't see the point in a lot of things Sam enjoyed. Studying, for one…and salad. He wrenched his thoughts away from 'REAL men eat MEAT!' and refocused his wandering attention on Sam, who was still talking.

"It's so amazing that our group got picked, everyone was expecting the seniors to be chosen, but we won them out. Now, we have 8 more practices and 2 dress rehearsals before the meet, and every team member has to attend every single one."

Dean abruptly interrupted his brother. "Whoa, slow down. When exactly are these practices?"

Sam glanced quizzically at his brother. "Every Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday after school for the next 2 weeks, plus Saturday and Sunday, Dean…Why?"

Dean cast a worried look at his brother. "Because I think Dad found a job for us-a spirit haunting up in Illinois. We're hitting the road tomorrow." Dean winced at the effect of his words as all of the elation seemed to whoosh out of Sam.

"Oh." The reply came in a flat toneless voice, and Sam suddenly seemed to be very interested in the scenery outside his window.

The last few minutes of the ride were passed in silence, and when Dean turned into the driveway of their small nondescript house, he prayed that Sam would just obey orders and go on the hunt. That he wouldn't storm into that house and do something to piss their father off. "Sam…"Dean was cut off by the sound of the car door slamming as Sam shoved himself out and headed straight for the house. Dean sighed and took his time cutting the engine.

Sam walked quickly through the door and banged it shut behind him, harder than he had intended to. His father, seated at the big desk that took up most of the main room, raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn't react. Inwardly he controlled his irritation. His temper had been too short lately toward Sam, but honestly, it wasn't as if the boy wasn't asking for it. John often wished that his younger son would be more like his older, obeying without question, committed fully to the hunt and their goal. Not that Sam wasn't without his strong points. He was incredibly intelligent, memorizing entire Latin manuscripts and chants, and his research skills were quickly surpassing John's own. While not as good a shot as Dean with a gun, the boy could work magic with a blade. He was also a skilled medic, having patched up Dean and John on too many occasions to count. Nonetheless, this misunderstood teenager act was wearing thin on John. He had more important issues to worry about than Sam's latest hormone-induced pet peeve.

Sam came up behind his father. He hesitated, and then decided to make the leap. His disappointment and anger had carried him this far; the rest was up to him.

"Dad…" he began.

His father turned around, a vaguely exasperated look lining his features. "What is it Sam? Make it quick, I'm busy, we have to be ready for our new hunt."

Sam faltered at the look on his father's face. "I…"

John didn't suppress his impatience and displeasure. "What, Sam? Spit it out already."

Sam's body stiffened, and he felt his determination fade. "Nothing." he muttered and walked down the hall to his room.

John felt something pang inside, but brushed it aside. It was nothing. If it had been really important, he trusted Sam would have told him. Still, something WAS wrong with Sam, and John had no idea how to fix it. Luckily the dilemma was solved by his elder son stepping in, swinging his keys in one hand.

"Dad?" Dean said as he walked over to his father.

"Yeah?" John asked, lifting his head from the messy stack of papers in front of him.

"Do…you think we could leave Sammy behind for this hunt? Just this once?"

John eyebrows disappeared up into his hairline, but he kept silent as Dean forged ahead.

"His…debate team at school got picked for this big competition thing, and he…he really wants to go. And I'm sure we could handle this one ourselves- it's a simple haunting. Shoot, salt, and burn."

Sam, down the hallway, felt a rush of gratitude toward his brother as he stared at the ceiling of the room he shared with Dean, laying on his bed. He allowed himself a brief surge of hope and listened carefully for John's reply.

John felt ugly frustration working its way up through his body. Sammy was trying to get out of another hunt. And worst of all, Dean was actually siding with him. Time to put a stop to this right now.

"Dean, no! I know you think you're doing your brother some kind of favor, but it's time he put away his selfishness and learned his place. I'm sick and tired of his excuses, of him never putting in enough, always taking and never giving."

Dean could feel himself agreeing with his father's words, but at the same time, a small voice at the core of him protested violently. That isn't Sammy! Sammy isn't selfish; he just wants his own life! What is wrong with that? John wasn't finished.

"And you know where that's going to get him, Dean? Dead. We need to stick together. We need to watch each other's backs, and he just isn't."

Dean felt his father's words making more and more sense with each passing second. Hell, there were always going to be supernatural beings out there, and with the knowledge that Sam possessed- he wasn't ever going to be safe. Dean pushed down the nagging voice that still sounded in his mind. The voice that said that if Dean stopped trying for Sam, John would push and push to make Sam into someone he just wasn't. And Sam would finally snap and leave all on his own. Instead he told himself firmly that he was doing this for Sam's own good. It was time for the kid to grow up, start living their lifestyle. He nodded at his father and John smiled proudly, knowing Dean would see sense.

"That's my boy." John clapped Dean on the shoulder and settled back down with his papers and charts.

Sam felt something inside him twist painfully at his father's words. His harsh criticisms stung like a blow, and Sam shut his eyes against the burning behind his eyelids. A few seconds later something stronger snapped sharply in Sam, and his eyes flew open once more, this time burning with something like anger. A firm resolve rooted itself into his mind, wrapping thin tendrils of defiance around his psyche.

I'll show them, he thought fiercely. He would not cry; he was proud, and he was stubborn-but above all he was a Winchester, and despite the cursed lifestyle that came with that name, he was sure as hell not going to break.

Author's note: It's me again. I made the leap. But the parachute is still there, I can still totally back out on this idea. Erase. Poof, and it's gone. Review and tell me what you think. Continue, trash?