To Live on One's Own Terms

Summary: The curse is broken. And maybe Sam is too. (Sequel to For Your Own Good)

“The greatest joy in life is the ability to live on one's own terms.”

Chapter One

Sam is barely holding on to consciousness by the time they arrive back at the motel.

Dean leads him inside and helps him out of his sweatshirt, then kneels to tug off his shoes. Sam watches him through heavy-lidded eyes, silent and half-asleep. He practically collapses sideways onto the bed when Dean applies the slightest bit of pressure to his shoulder.

Dean fusses with the pillows and blankets, more than he really has to. He just needs to do something to calm his anxious, fidgety hands. He presses the back of one to Sam's forehead – hot but not too hot, not time-to-freak-out hot, not anymore – and turns to get water, in case Sam is thirsty.

Sam's fingers close around his wrist, surprisingly strong. Dean stops, turning back. Sam's eyes are only half-open and struggling even with that but he looks up at Dean with determination.

“Don't go,” he says. Surprise, and then relief, flutters across his face. “Stay. Please.”

For Your Own Good

Summary: “Don't worry, Dean. I'll be a good little soldier and do everything Dad says. Promise.” Sam doesn't know how right he is.

Sam is sixteen. Dean is twenty.

Chapter One

It isn't Sam's fault.

He had done everything that he'd been told to do. John said to carry the pack – heavy with extra knives and emergency supplies – so Sam carried the pack. He'd hardly complained at all, considering it must have weighed almost as much as he did. It kept throwing off his centre of gravity, threatening to send him sprawling in the undergrowth as he trudged doggedly through the uneven terrain.

When John had barked at him to quit bitching Sam had done that too. Instead, he'd entertained himself by compiling a mental list of all the things he'd like to say to his father. All the things he would say to his father, if not for the fact that he isn't dumb and he doesn't have a death wish.

And when the wood nymph had emerged from it's tree, spitting mad and moving freakishly fast on creepy stick-like legs, Sam had been ready with the silver knife John had given him when he turned sixteen, the latest in a long line of weapons as gifts that would inevitably end up in the back of John's truck. (Sam is convinced that John uses their birthdays as an excuse to add to his own weapons collection.)