A chorus of laughter accompanied the sound and Sam's heart stopped.
"Oh, sorry," the bully chuckled and shoved Sam who fell onto his hands and knees.
More laughter. Sam felt heat creep up his neck and cheeks, tears pricked his eyes.
"What a baby," a voice chimed in and Sam ducked his head as the contents of his backpack was dumped on top of him.
Where was Dean? He'd said he'd be at the school as soon as the final bell rang. He was never late.
Sam tried to get up but a hard kick to his ribs forced him to curl up protectively. Why couldn't these kids leave him alone? He hadn't done anything to them.
"Oh shit! Let's get out of here!" the ringleader cried and feet pounded inches from Sam's face as the teens fled.
"Sammy!" a familiar voice called and the sixteen-year old looked up. Dean was finally here.
Strong hands grabbed Sam under the armpits and heaved him into a sitting position. His older brother crouched down in front of him and surveyed the mess.
"Was it those assholes again?" Dean asked, concern and anger flaring up in his hazel eyes. Sam shrugged in response.
"Sam!" Dean snapped and Sam nodded sheepishly.
The older brother sighed and began gathering up the school supplies strewn all over the concrete surrounding Sam. Damn it! They had been in town for a couple of weeks and it seemed that some kids in Sam's class had decided to make his life miserable for no other reason than the fact that he was the new kid. Nearly every day Sam would climb into the waiting Impala with a torn shirt or bloodied lip or some personal possession damaged or stolen.
It was all Dean could do not to hunt down the punks himself and kick their asses into next week for messing with his brother.
Once Dean had stuffed everything into Sam's backpack, he grasped his brother's arm and pulled him up, wincing at the torn knees of his jeans and the sight of blood leaking through the denim.
"Sam, where are your glasses?" Dean asked and his brother paled visibly. Sam glanced around, twisting at the waist to look behind himself and let out a groan as he spied his glasses. Reaching down, Sam picked them up by the nose piece and grimaced. One of the arms was bent outwards at an almost ninety degree angle, one of the lenses was cracked and the other was completely broken; the glass missing entirely from the frame.
"Dad's going to kill me," Sam said with more than a little trepidation in his voice.
"No he won't," Dean assured him.
"Are you kidding me? Look at them!" Sam waved the broken glasses in Dean's face, "You heard him: If I break these ones that's it!"
Although Sam had been adverse to the idea of having to wear glasses at first, he had gotten used to them in the intervening months and didn't mind them. At least he didn't have to make a fool of himself in class by squinting at the board and rambling on lamely when called upon to read whatever the teacher had written.
"Look, just tell Dad what happened and I'm sure he'll understand," Dean suggested. Sure John could be a hardass but he wouldn't really be so petty as to make Sam go without glasses just because some douchebags had smashed them.
Sam's expression told Dean that he didn't know their father as well as he thought he did. He closed the arms of his glasses as best he could and slipped them into the pocket of his jeans.
"Can we just go home now?" he asked tiredly.
Dean nodded and led the way to the waiting Chevy.
"Why were you late?" Sam asked once he was sitting in the passenger seat, his backpack at his feet.
"What? Oh, Dad wanted me to finish up some research for the hunt," Dean answered distractedly and turned on the stereo.
Sam gave a long-suffering sigh when Metallica's 'Eye of the Beholder' came pounding out of the speakers.
When the brothers arrived at the motel room, their father was still out. Sam went straight to his duffel bag and rummaged around for some clean clothes. The young man paused with a pair of khaki pants in his hands when Dean spoke.
"You should tell Dad about the glasses."
"I can't!" Sam almost growled the words, hand holding the trousers clenching into a fist.
He sighed when he saw Dean's hurt expression though. He wasn't mad at Dean.
"Let's just wait until this hunt is over. Dad will be in a better mood and I'll tell him then, okay?" Sam asked, pleading silently with his older brother to keep his mouth shut about the glasses as well.
Dean nodded. Okay.
Sam turned away from his brother and stepped inside the tiny motel washroom. Closing the door behind himself, Sam leaned against its wooden frame and ran a hand through his hair.
Once they finished this hunt they'd put this town in their rearview mirror and Sam would never have to see those assholes in his class again.
When John was on a case he had time to think of little else. Later that evening when he stepped through the door of the motel room, he peered at his sons as if looking straight through them.
Dean was sitting against the headboard of one of the beds, a can of soda in hand while he watched television. Sam was lying on his stomach on the other bed, notebook and textbook sitting before him as he finished his homework.
"C'mon boys," John said gruffly, "I found the place. We can wrap this up tonight."
Dean jumped up immediately, ready for action. Sam reacted slower, closing his books and sliding tiredly off the bed.
"Hurry up, Sam," John growled.
His youngest son stuffed his books into his battered backpack and stepped up beside his brother.
"Where are we headed?" Dean asked, eagerly.
"Rosewood Cemetery," John told his sons and gathered up his duffel bag and some weapons that had been sitting out.
Without further comment, the eldest Winchester turned and stomped out of the room. His big black truck sat in the parking spoke beside the Impala, dwarfing the classic Chevy.
Before his sons got into the car, John turned to them again, "Sam, this should be an easy salt-and-burn. I'm trusting that you can handle this."
Dean wrapped an arm around his brother's shoulder, "'Course he can, Dad. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezey, right Sam?"
John nodded and unlocked the truck's door, tossing his duffel onto the passenger's side before climbing into the driver's seat.
The drive to the cemetery was short- the town itself was not very large- and within ten minutes the truck was passing through the wrought-iron gates. The evil spirit- the ghost of a little girl- was causing a deadly outbreak of Scarlet fever among the town's children.
John didn't understand why the child would cause others to die of the same illness that had claimed her life but it wasn't his job to question. He was there to put a stop to the deaths.
Parking the truck, John took a container of salt a, shotgun and a flashlight from his duffel bag and exited the vehicle. Dean and Sam pulled up beside their father and took shovels and a gas can from the Impala's trunk.
"C'mon," John said and led the way through the cemetery.
The eldest Winchester heard his sons muttering to one another as as they followed him but he ignored it, paying attention to the crumbling headstones around them in case the ghostly little girl appeared.
Sam picked his way carefully along the dirt path winding through Rosewood Cemetery. Despite the fact that Dean kept his flashlight poised on the ground ahead of them, he still found it hard to see and more than once he nearly tripped over a hidden root or stone.
Dean's hand snaked out and latched onto Sam's elbow, keeping him from steady. The younger man held a shotgun pointed at the ground, prepared to dissipate any ghost that appeared and give his brother and father time to destroy the remains.
"You okay, Sammy?" he murmured and Sam nodded, "Yeah."
They left the path and walked across the lawn, their sneakers becoming soaked with dew as they crept through the grass.
The boys' father stopped abruptly in front of a crumbling limestone grave marker and Sam almost bumped into John's back. Luckily, Dean's hand on his arm prevented that embarrassing action from happening.
"Amelia Boots," John said quietly and set the container of salt on the ground.
"Help me out here, Dean," he called to his eldest and the young man dug his spade into the turf at the foot of the headstone.
Sam stood back, now holding Dean's flashlight, and watched his brother and father, eyes wide for any sign of the ghost.
He listened to his brother talk quietly with his father while they worked, "Hey Dad?"
"Yeah?" John grunted, throwing a spadeful of dirt over his shoulder.
"I, uh, found something while I was researching today," Dean commented, continuing to dig as he spoke.
"Amelia had a sister," Dean said, "Her name was Alice. But…"
Sam's brother swore as his shovel hit stone and he bent over to try and pry it up from the dirt. Sam spun the flashlight around quickly when he heard the sound of a twig cracking underfoot.
John and Dean, too focused on digging, didn't hear the sound.
"I can't find anything on her," Dean continued, "It's like she disappears from the family after Amelia died."
"Huh," John grunted, clearly not really paying attention.
Sam moved away from his small family, eyes narrowed to try and focus on the source of the sound. It could have just been an animal for all he knew, a squirrel or raccoon.
A flickering figure appeared right in front of Sam- a girl of eight or nine in a white frock dress- and he stumbled backwards in shock. The child, with wide blue eyes staring out of a face still flushed with fever, giggled and moved towards Sam.
"D-Dean!" Sam cried, stuttering in fear. The ghost was so close he could feel the cold coming off it in waves.
"Sammy!" he heard his brother shout and he lifted the shotgun, his hands shaking.
The ghost vanished like mist and Sam sagged, his heart pounding. He startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder but calmed once he realized that it was his brother.
"You okay?" Dean asked, concern in his voice.
"Y-Yeah," Sam muttered, "Just startled me a bit."
"Dean! C'mon!" John called, "We need to finish this before someone comes to investigate that gunshot."
Sam's brother gave his shoulder a supportive squeeze before returning to the grave, picking up his shovel again.
Sam wiped his forearm across his brow. That had been way too close.
Looking over his shoulder, Sam saw his brother and father still digging. He turned away and played the beam of the flashlight over the elderly gravestones surrounding them.
Sam sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes, blinking tiredly. He wished he had his glasses.
"Jackpot!" Dean's triumphant cry startled Sam and he looked behind him once again. He almost wished he hadn't.
The ghostly little girl stood only inches away from him, a cruel smile on her lips.
Sam moved to turn and face Amelia but he heard a giggle come from in front of him. A second little girl- almost identical to the first- was standing before him. How long had she been there?
Before Sam could react, Alice flicked her hand and the gun flew from Sam's fingers. Amelia laughed and put a tiny hand through Sam's back. The teen gasped as he instantly felt ill. He collapsed to his knees, unable to make a sound. Alice stepped forward until she was close enough to touch him.
What were Dad and Dean doing?
The little girl smiled, reached out and put an ice cold hand on the side of Sam's face.
The ground rushed up to meet Sam and he vaguely heard someone shouting his name. He was unconscious even before the two ghostly little girls shrieked and burst into flames as their skeletons burned.
"Sam! Sammy!" Dean called his brother's name frantically, tapping Sam's cheek in an effort to rouse him.
Dean sat back in relief when his sibling's eyelids fluttered and opened. He helped Sam sit up, an arm around Sam's back for support.
"Don' feel s'good," Sam mumbled and lowered his head against Dean's chest.
Dean frowned and brushed Sam's damp bangs away from his brow, frowning at the heat pouring off his brother in waves.
"It's okay, Sammy. You just need some soup and Tylenol and you'll be fine," Dean assured him. He glanced up when John stomped towards them.
"What the hell was that, Sam?" he growled, burdened by the shovels and weapons, "The ghost was in front of your nose and you couldn't shoot it?!"
Sam groaned miserably and Dean glared at their father, "Could you lay off him until we get back to the motel?"
"Fine," John snapped, "Let's get out of here."
Dean looked down at his brother, "Think you can walk out of here, Sammy?"
The younger boy nodded dazedly.
Dean grabbed Sam underneath the armpits and heaved him to his feet. Sam swayed slightly and his older brother quickly wrapped a supporting arm around his shoulders.
"We'll just take it slow, okay?"
Sam mumbled something that Dean didn't hear but took to be an affirmative answer. He had his flashlight again- Sam had dropped it when the ghosts attacked him- and illuminated the path before them since John was already well ahead.
"Should 'a worn m'glasses," Sam slurred and Dean frowned. Didn't his brother remember the spectacles were busted?
The older sibling said nothing but tightened his arm around his brother comfortingly.
Once Dean reached the cars, he helped his brother lay down in the back of the Impala- despite Sam's protests that he was fine- and glanced at his father concernedly.
"I think we should consider taking Sammy to a hospital," he told John.
To Dean's surprise and irritation, his father shook his head, "He'll get over it. Just give him a few hours. We don't have anymore business here and I want to hit the road."
The young man narrowed his eyes, "If you're just trying to punish him for not shooting those ghosts-"
John stepped towards his eldest son, the open driver's side door of the Impala between them, "If Sam isn't better by the morning, we can take him into a clinic, alright? Right now we have to leave."
"Fine," Dean agreed reluctantly and settled into the Impala, closing the door without another word to his father. He adjusted the rearview mirror so he had a partial view of the backseat as well as the rear window, "How you doing, Sammy?"
"Hmmm?" His brother replied tiredly.
"You okay?" Dean asked again in a simpler fashion.
"Yeah," Sam answered tiredly.
John's truck roared to life ahead of them and began to slowly make its way down the road and towards the cemetery exit. Dean turned the key in the Impala's ignition and began following.
"You need anything," Dean told his brother, "Just tell me, alright?"
"Mmhm," Sam murmured and closed his eyes.
Dean sighed and turned his attention to the road ahead. He hoped that his Dad was right and Sam would bounce back from the ghost attack during the night but from personal experience he knew for a fact that his family- and his younger brother in particular- were not friends of Lady Luck.
After a quick stop at the motel to grab the rest of their belongings and check-out, the Winchesters were back on the road.
Sam was quiet in the backseat. He had his eyes shut and Dean hoped he was sleeping off the effects of the ghostly twins' attack. Dean followed behind John as his father drove non-stop throughout the night, putting as many miles between them and the town as he could. Dean always marvelled at his Dad's ability to simply leave a town and forget about it. The younger man was constantly trying to emulate his father in that way; keeping himself detached from the civilian population. Sam, still in school, found it more difficult to drift from one location to another, Dean could tell. His brother tried making friends, probably all the while knowing that soon he'd have to leave them.
Dean wished that Sam could have a normal childhood- despite the fact that they were saving people- and sometimes hated having to tell his brother they had to go again.
The older brother's thoughts were interrupted when he heard his sibling groan weakly from the backseat.
Concerned, Dean flashed his lights at John's truck and made to pull over onto the shoulder of the road. Luckily it was the middle of the night and the highway was virtually deserted.
Turning off the engine, Dean unbuckled himself and twisted around in his seat so he could face his brother.
"Sammy? You awake? How are you feeling?"
Sam rolled his head to his brother and groaned again, "Don' feel too good, Dee."
"Okay, okay," the older teen murmured and reached out a hand to check his sibling's temperature.
Dean frowned at the heat radiating from his brother's skin.
"Do you feel like you're going to be sick?" he asked worriedly.
Sam shook his head, "No… I… huh…"
Dean's brows pinched, "One second, Sammy."
He opened his door and flagged down his father. John stepped down from his truck and made his way over to the Impala.
"What's wrong?" he asked gruffly, sounding tired.
"Sam's still really warm," Dean told him, "I'm pretty sure its a fever."
John nodded and ran a hand across his beard, "It's almost dawn. We can stop at the next town we come to. Get a motel and wait it out."
"Okay," Dean said, "But if this gets worse-"
John interrupted, annoyance in his voice, "We'll take him to see a doctor, I know."
Dean scowled at his father, "I thought you said we could take him to a hospital."
John crossed his arms over his broad chest, "I'm not waiting hours on end at some walk-in clinic for some overworked and underpaid doctor to tell me all Sam needs is fluids and bed rest."
"If Sam's not better by this evening, I will take him to a doctor," Dean informed his father, standing his ground, "With or without you."
John gestured with his hands as if to say 'be my guest' and turned around, walking back to his truck.
Dean could see his father's point; both he and Sam had been sick before, even had some pretty nasty fevers, and had recovered after a few hours of sleep and chicken noodle soup. John thought this was going to be like those other times. Dean prayed it was.
Sam scratched absentmindedly at his neck and frowned. His throat was really sore and he wanted to ask Dean if they had any water bottles in the trunk but he was just too tired to speak.
Maybe they'd stop soon.
Sam closed his eyes and drifted to sleep, one hand resting at the base of his throat where he had been feeling a strange itching sensation.
Probably just a mosquito from the graveyard.
He was going to be sick.
Sam didn't have time to say anything before he rolled onto his side and threw up in the foot wells of the Impala's backseat.
"Sammy!" Dean shouted from the front and jerked the classic Chevy to a stop.
Sam moaned in misery. His throat felt like he had swallowed broken glass and his face and neck were itching like mad.
Sam watched blearily as his brother twisted to face him and his eyes went wide with shock. It wasn't completely light out yet and the interior of the Impala was a murky grey.
"D'n," Sam croaked apologetically, "M'sssorry."
"It's okay," Dean said, his gaze flicking between Sam's face and neck.
"Why'm I… itchy… was sit… bug?" Sam asked, and blinked at his brother, raising a hand to scratch his forehead.
"Ah!" Dean snatched his wrist and pulled it down, "Don't do that, Sammy."
"Why?" Sam asked. It almost felt like chickenpox but Sam knew that was ridiculous; he had had them when he was five- some girl in his Kindergarten class had passed them around- and was sure he couldn't get them again, could he?
"Where's Dad?" Sam asked and lowered his head as his stomach heaved.
"He's coming, Sammy," Dean assured him and put a cool hand on the back of his neck.
Over the sound of his own heaving, Sam heard his brother open his door and John's voice ask what was happening.
"He's got it, Dad," Dean said, his tone worried, "Those bitches gave it to him. He has to go to the hospital."
"M'fine," Sam mumbled, grimacing at the sour taste in his mouth, "D'n, m'okay."
"No Sam," Dean said bluntly, "You're not. We are going to a hospital."
Sam flopped back against the seat bonelessly. He could see his father standing beside the Impala, peering in at him.
"Shit," John muttered and shared a glance at Dean. Sam suddenly felt like he was being left out of the loop.
Not wanting his Dad to be angry at him- unless his legs were broken or he was on his death bed, Sam was expected to help research and hunt- he tried to smile and reassure his father that he would be as fine as paint in a few hours.
"S'alright, Daddy, I'll be okay," Sam mumbled, causing both his brother and John to ogle at him as though he had just grown an extra head. Sam hadn't called John 'Daddy' since he was ten years old.
"You're right," John muttered to his eldest, "He does need a hospital."
Their father stepped back and closed the door.
"Sit back, Sammy," Dean ordered even though he was already lying down.
The engine revved and Sam was lulled into sleep by the Impala's comforting purr.
John carried Sam through the doors of the hospital, Dean at his side.
"Doctor!" he called urgently.
A petite Asian woman ran towards them, keeping her composure as she instructed a couple of orderlies to bring a gurney.
In a matter of seconds, father and eldest son were left standing in the foyer of the Emergency waiting room, their youngest having disappeared behind a pair of double doors marked 'AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY'.
Dean went straight to a chair but didn't sit. Instead he paced. It was early in the morning and they were the only civilians in the waiting room. John walked over to the Nurses' Station and talked to the young lady sitting at the desk, taking the clipboard, pen and forms she gave him to fill out.
"Sam's going to okay, right?" Dean asked John as he sat down and started to write down the pertinent information on the forms.
John nodded but said nothing. Scarlet fever rarely killed children anymore but since Sam's had not been contracted naturally, he wasn't sure what would happen to his youngest.
"He'll be alright," Dean muttered to himself, "He's here now. The doctors will take care of him."
Two hours had already passed and still the Winchesters had not seen the doctor who had taken Sam through the doors, reappear. John sipped at a cup of lukewarm coffee while Dean continued to pace restlessly.
"Dean?" John asked, "What happened last night?"
Sam, although not the best hunter, usually didn't fuck up simple jobs like salt-n-burns. John knew his son was better than that. What bothered him was that Sam had been acting oddly and John just couldn't put his finger on it.
"What do you mean?" Dean asked, his voice low to avoid attracting unwanted attention, "Those ghosts ganged-up on him."
John's brow furrowed, "I know that, Dean. What I want to know is why didn't Sam just shoot them; they were standing right in front of him."
Dean shifted in his chair and John could have sworn he saw guilt flash across his face for a split second before it was gone.
"Dean," John pressed, "What happened?"
His eldest sighed and raked a hand through his short-cropped hair.
"It wasn't Sam's fault, okay?" he muttered, "Some asshole kids at his school busted his glasses-"
"What?! When?" John snapped, anger suddenly rising in his belly.
Sam was sixteen-fucking-years old! He shouldn't be having trouble with bullies!
"Yesterday afternoon," Dean confessed, "After school ended."
"And where were you? I thought you were picking him up," John demanded.
It was his eldest son's turn to become angry, "I was doing research for you!"
Both Winchesters glanced at the Nurses' Station when the young lady cleared her throat pointedly; they were being too loud.
"How could this happen?" John asked.
Dean gaped at his father, "I don't know what kids were like when you were in high school, Dad, but nowadays they can be merciless."
John paused, there was an underlying message to his son's words. Had Sam been bullied before? Why hadn't his youngest told him?
"So Sam's glasses were broken," John returned to the problem at hand, "Why did you keep it quiet? Why didn't he tell me?"
Dean shrugged, hedging.
"He knows better than that!" John exclaimed, "Damn it!"
If Sam had only told him he didn't have his glasses, John would have made him wait by the cars, just like when he'd been younger. Now, because Sam had been too selfish to speak up, he was in the hospital.
"I can't believe Sam would be so irresponsible," John muttered to himself darkly.
"Dad, it wasn't Sam's fault," Dean spoke up, "Those kids-"
John held up his hand, silencing his oldest.
Sam was supposed to take care of his glasses and he hadn't done so. Was it John's fault that some idiot kids had broken them? No. Sam shouldn't have gotten mixed up with the local teens in the first place. And to top it off, he had gotten himself hurt because he hadn't told John about them. Sam never told him anything anymore and look where it had landed him. Well, John wasn't going to take responsibility for the fact that his teen son was being moody. Sam should have come to him first. And he hadn't. Maybe he'd learn something from this.
John shook his head and gulped down half of his coffee, fuming at his youngest son's actions. At least Dean still listened to him.
Sam opened his eyes slowly and smiled at the sight of his brother and father.
"Hey, Sammy," Dean murmured, "Doc says you'll be just fine."
The young man's brows knitted. Why? What had happened?
Dean seemed to instantly understand why his brother was confused and leaned closer to him, "Those ghost bitches gave you Scarlet fever."
Oh. Yeah. Sam remembered now. Amelia and her sister killed all those children.
"Whhhater," Sam muttered and Dean grabbed a plastic cup filled with ice chips, "Doctor Lee said you can have these."
Sam closed his eyes and let the piece of ice Dean gave him melt on his tongue, the liquid cooling his burning throat.
"Sam," John's voice had the young man gazing nervously at his father.
"Dad," Dean hissed, "Not right now."
What was wrong? Was he going to be okay?
"D'n?" Sam asked and lifted his hand to grab at his brother. Sam glanced down and noticed red streaks on the inside of his elbow.
"It's just a rash, Sammy," Dean assured him, "Doc Lee said it'll clear up in a couple of weeks."
"Samuel," John said, using his son's full name and the youngster's green eyes focused on him.
Sam knew something was wrong. John only ever called him by his full name if he was really angry.
"Why didn't you tell me about the glasses?"
A bead of sweat that had nothing to do with the fever slid down Sam's brow. He squeezed Dean's hand for comfort. Though John might not believe it, Sam didn't like fighting with his father. Sam wished that his father would just give him a chance to voice his opinion instead of shutting him down before he'd even had an opportunity to speak.
"I… uh… you…" Sam stammered. He didn't want to do this right now; why did John want to do this right now?
"I told you to take care of them," John said and folded his arms over his chest, a sure sign that he wasn't open to hearing Sam's point of view on the matter.
"You could have gotten yourself killed last night," his father continued, "You could have gotten me or Dean killed because you didn't tell me about them."
Sam lowered his gaze, ashamed. He thought he would be fine without them. The glasses were only meant to be for seeing the school blackboard and small print on books and the computer.
"M'sorry," Sam mumbled.
"Sorry doesn't cut it, young man," John told him, "You were responsible for those glasses and you have shown that you can't take care of things like that."
"Dad! Leave him alone!" Dean snapped, his face beginning to turn red with anger.
"Don't expect me to buy you another pair," John told his youngest, ignoring his eldest, "In fact, don't expect me to buy you anything else, since you have shown me how irresponsible you are."
"Dad! What the fuck?" Dean exclaimed, "You can't just do that!"
John shrugged and stepped out of the room, ending the conversation.
Sam's breath hitched. Why was he always making things worse? He should have just told his father about the glasses as soon as he returned to the motel room.
"Dad didn't mean it," Dean told Sam. He cupped Sam's cheeks, and thumbed away the tears on his younger brother's face.
"I-I'm… j-just a-" Sam began but Dean shushed him, "Don't talk Sammy, rest your throat."
Sam nodded and swallowed painfully; Dean gave him some more ice chips.
"Dad will get over it," Dean assured him.
Sam shook his head. Their father seemed really serious. It wasn't even his father's punishment that bothered him; it was the fact that John didn't trust him.
Dean brushed Sam's bangs off his brow, "Don't worry about it, Sammy. I'll talk to him; see if I can knock some sense into him."
Sam smiled slightly and leaned back against the pillows, exhausted.
"All you have to do right now is get better, okay? Don't worry about Dad," Dean said and Sam nodded, closing his eyes.
Dean stood up, carefully slipping his brother's hand from his and stretched.
He was going to have a long conversation with his father once John came back.
1. I know the Winchesters are once again a bunch of Drama queens in this fanfic but I couldn't help myself, seeing as 'No More Rose-Coloured Glasses' kind of set the bar for melodrama. Hopefully you all enjoy!
2. Please leave a review and I will try and write another one as soon as possible!