Supernatural 1. Chapter 1

**Easy come, Easy go** – _Cliché_ said to explain the loss of something that required only a small amount of effort to acquire in the first place.

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**Summary**: AU 8x01 – Sick Sam, Protective Big Brother Dean, Suspicious Amelia – "Sounds like you fight for what you want and protect what you love," the man commented over the phone. Amelia nodded at the accurate description. "I do," she confirmed. "So do I," the man responded smoothly. "And I'm coming for Sam. So you take care of him until I get there…and then we'll see who he chooses."

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

**Warnings**: Spoilers for Season 8 and usual language.

**A/N**: The challenge I put forth to myself – to make a generally unsympathetic character (like Amelia) somewhat sympathetic and to also put an AU twist on the 8x01 episode while including my favorite combination of sick Sam and protective, big brother Dean. So, here we go...

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_All it'll take is just one moment, and you can say goodbye to how you had it planned. ~ The Avett Brothers_

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The sound startled her awake, and she laid there for several seconds; blinking at the ceiling as she tried to orient herself to the dark room and to figure out what the hell that persistent, repetitive noise was.

And then she realized.

"Dammit..." Amelia swore in annoyance and sighed as she ran her fingers through her hair, sweeping the messy strands from her face and wondering who the hell was calling past midnight.

But the timing felt wrong even as the thought passed through her mind, and she rolled over, squinting at the red glowing numbers on the bedside clock and feeling vaguely confused that it wasn't nearly as late as she had thought.

Only 8:06.

"Huh," Amelia mused, untangling her fingers from her curly brown locks and rubbing the back of her hand across her eyes; not surprised that she had accidently fallen asleep but wondering how long she had been lying there.

The last she remembered they had eaten an early dinner – leftovers for her, a couple bites of soup for Sam – and then they had retreated back to their bedroom where she was just going to rest beside Sam for a few minutes until he settled.

But she guessed "resting" had turned into actual sleeping and those few minutes had turned into a few hours since it had been daylight when she had first closed her eyes...and now it was dark.

Not to mention that she was still fully dressed – except for her shoes – as she lied on top of the comforter.

Amelia sighed, still feeling slightly disoriented, and belatedly realized the phone was still going off.

But the realization came too late as the cellphone stopped vibrating on the nightstand as suddenly as it had started.

...which was just as well.

After all, Amelia wasn't on call for work and certainly didn't feel like accepting a social call, either.

Hell, she didn't even have the energy to check who had called much less carry on an actual conversation with somebody.

So, it really didn't matter who had been on the opposite end of the unanswered line.

If it was important, they'd call back.

But Amelia hoped they didn't.

Because she had no interest in anything beyond sleeping.

Especially after the week she had endured, caring for the sick at work _and_ at home; a seemingly unending loop of monitoring fevers, pushing liquids, and administering medications.

But it was worth it.

_He_ was worth it.

Amelia smiled at the thought of him and glanced at Sam beside her on the mattress; thankful he was now deeply asleep – as evidenced by his lack of reaction to the vibrating phone that had clattered against the nightstand.

But rest was the best thing for him – even if it was caused by a mixture of fatigue and prescription-strength drugs – and he seemed to be getting it; his congested breathing the only sound in the room instead of the restless movement from earlier.

Amelia sighed, briefly slipping her hand beneath Sam's bangs and palming his forehead; his hair not quite as damp, his skin not quite as warm as before.

The combination made her ridiculously happy.

"You're cooler," Amelia told Sam as he slept, smiling softly at the good news. "_Finally_," she added and lightly kissed his slightly flushed cheek; hoping Sam was indeed on the mend from whatever respiratory virus he had picked up last week and had been kicking his ass ever since.

At the foot of the bed, Riot shifted and sighed; his paws pushing against their legs as he stretched.

Amelia smiled at their bed-hog dog and then refocused on Sam. Her smile lingering as she continued to lie beside him in the moonlit darkness of their bedroom – Sam beneath the blankets and her on top since she had not planned on staying earlier.

But even though she was now awake – and had several things to do around the house – Amelia couldn't persuade herself to get up; instead staring at Sam and marveling at how their paths had crossed; how life had seemed to grant her a second chance, having lost her husband to war...but having gained the opportunity to save another soldier.

Not that Sam had ever said he was a soldier.

At least, not yet.

They hadn't really shared much of their past with each other thus far.

But she knew.

In her heart, Amelia knew Sam had seen battle, had survived a war of his own – along with the catastrophic loss of his older brother that he had confided – and she was thankful to be the one helping Sam regain his feet; thankful that he was helping her do the same.

"I think I love you," Amelia whispered to him, carefully brushing strands of hair from Sam's eyes as he continued to sleep beside her; strangely feeling on the verge of tears for having something – _someone_ – she didn't deserve.

And whether Sam knew it or not, whether she ever confessed that to him or not...she didn't deserve him.

But here he was, and she intended to keep him.

Amelia quirked a smile at her inner dialogue – as if Sam was a lost puppy that had wandered into her life – and knew her mother would roll her eyes if she could hear, would make some comment about veterinarians always thinking in terms of animals.

"He's not a dog, sweetheart," her mom had said more than a few times throughout Amelia's life when it came to men.

And though Sam was certainly not a dog, it _had_ been _because_ of a dog that their lives had crossed.

...which just further proved that animals were Heaven sent.

Amelia snorted at herself – glancing at Riot curled up on the bed with them – and then sighed; her fingers crawling along the edge of the smooth cotton linens as she reached for Sam.

Her hand carefully settled on his back as he slept sprawled on his stomach; his arms beneath his pillow, his face still turned toward her with his hair fanned across the pillowcase.

He looked peaceful, but Amelia blinked at the unnatural heat she could feel through his t-shirt _and_ the sheet covering him.

"Hmm..." she hummed as she frowned – because maybe Sam's fever wasn't down as much as she had thought.

...which meant maybe he needed more Ibuprofen.

He probably did.

But he was sleeping now, so she would worry about it later.

No need to wake him and risk him not being able to fall back asleep; not after how sick he had been and how many sleepless nights they had endured together this past week because of his illness.

Amelia nodded in agreement with herself and began rubbing Sam's back; an unexplainable need to comfort him, to touch him and to let him know that she was there; that she knew he had suffered loss, but _she_ wasn't leaving him.

And maybe subconsciously she searched for a reciprocated promise – that _he_ wouldn't leave her, either.

A girl could hope.

And she certainly did.

Amelia sighed.

Sam slept on.

Riot did the same.

Amelia's smile lingered.

Because this was all she had ever wanted – a good guy and a good dog.

...which meant life was good.

At least for now.

There was a contented beat of silence; Sam's steady, slightly wheezed breaths having a strangely soothing effect.

Amelia closed her eyes, her hand still resting on Sam's back as she allowed the rhythmic sound of his breathing to lull her back to sleep.

But it didn't last long.

The phone resumed vibrating on the nightstand, and Amelia startled awake once again.

"Ugh. Go away," Amelia groaned to whoever was calling – really not in the mood for this – but pushed herself up on one elbow, glancing at Riot as he sat up as well.

Wordlessly, she held her finger to her lips and shook her head, not wanting the dog's movements to jostle the mattress and disturb Sam.

Riot tilted his head but seemed to understand Amelia's silent command, remaining still and quiet as he watched her snag her phone from the nightstand on her side of the bed.

But it wasn't her phone that was vibrating this time.

"Duh, Amelia..." she chastised herself and shook her head – she _really_ needed more sleep – and slid the phone back to where she had found it; instead rolling over and shifting positions on the mattress to carefully lean over a sleeping Sam.

As if mocking her, the phone continued to vibrate noisily.

Amelia glared; her nerves already frayed from the worry and fatigue of the past week, and the grating sound of the phone's vibration only worsening her irritation.

Plus if the asshole who kept calling woke up Sam, there would be hell to pay.

Amelia's glare intensified at the thought.

Seeming to sense her bad mood, Riot whined softly.

"Hush," Amelia hissed, cutting her eyes at the dog, and then glanced at Sam as she reached for the buzzing phone on his nightstand.

Not caring that the device didn't belong to her...or that she could've pressed "ignore"...or that she could've let the call go to voicemail.

She only wanted it to _shut up_.

And the quickest way to make that happen was to answer the damn thing.

So, she did – pressing "answer" and holding the phone to her ear.

"Hello?" Amelia asked quietly, her arm beginning to tingle from the way she was awkwardly propped up; her elbow digging into the mattress.

There was silence on the opposite end of the line.

But Amelia knew someone was there; that the person was quiet because he...or she – though it better _not _be another woman – was startled that Amelia had answered and not Sam.

So, maybe it _was_ another woman...

Amelia scowled at the thought. "Hello?" she repeated.

"Uh, yeah..." a voice responded.

And thank god it was a man.

Amelia sighed in relief, feeling silly.

But Sam was one of the best things that had happened to her in a long time, and she was protective of him...maybe even a little possessive.

So excuse her if she reacted badly to the idea, to the daily fear of someone taking him away from her.

Amelia shook her head, feeling her hair skim her shoulders as she tried to focus. "May I help you?" she politely asked, remembering that summer she had worked the reception desk at a local animal clinic.

"Uh, yeah..." the man repeated, now sounding a bit concerned and suspicious that Sam hadn't answered the phone. "Who's this?"

Amelia didn't miss a beat. "Who are you looking for?" she skillfully dodged, and she could practically hear the arched eyebrow on the opposite end of the line.

The man chuckled at the vaguely smartass response and offered a smartass reply of his own. "I was looking for Sam."

...which made sense.

After all, it was _Sam's_ phone.

"Are you the girlfriend?" the man asked her; his tone implying he already knew she was.

But Amelia blinked at the description; her and Sam having not officially labeled themselves as such – _boyfriend, girlfriend_ – though she knew they were.

"Amelia Richardson, right?" the man pressed, and again his tone implied that he already knew he was right and was only double-checking his facts.

Amelia narrowed her eyes.

Because who the hell was this?

It wasn't like Sam had a lot of friends. He was polite and appropriately social when they were out together. But for the most part, Sam kept to himself. Amelia couldn't imagine him just freely sharing personal relationship information in the community.

Plus, Sam hadn't even wanted a cellphone and had only gotten one at Amelia's insistence. So she also couldn't imagine him just freely handing out his number for people to call him. In fact, she could count on one hand the number of times he had received a call over the past six months that had not been from her.

So...who the hell was this?

And how had this man gotten Sam's number?

And what did he want?

Amelia shook her head, uncertain of the answers to those questions but beginning to feel strangely panicked and defensive.

Riot whined as he stared at her from the foot of the bed.

Amelia shook her head again, glaring at the dog as Sam shifted at the high-pitched, distressed sound.

"Was that a dog?" the man asked, seeming surprised.

Guess he didn't know everything after all.

Amelia smirked at the validation.

"Well, I'll be damned..." the man commented and then chuckled. "Sammy finally got a dog." He paused. "And a girl," he added and then chuckled again, seeming genuinely pleased. "Good for you, Sammy."

Amelia arched an eyebrow.

Because seriously...who _was _this?

"Anyway..." the man dismissed, not seeming to care much about Amelia or the dog as his attention returned to the reason for his call. "Is he there?" he asked about Sam, though his tone was more demanding than questioning.

_Is he there? I know he is. Let me talk to him._

Amelia glanced at Sam sleeping beside her, not willing to wake him and unexplainably reluctant to inform this stranger of Sam's whereabouts...or of anything else about Sam.

After all, just because the man had Sam's number – and knew her name as well – didn't mean this man actually _knew_ Sam.

Maybe it was a wrong number.

Even though Amelia knew it wasn't.

She swallowed.

"Hey..." the man called, clearly beginning to lose patience with Amelia's stalling in regards to putting Sam on the phone. "You hear me?"

Amelia arched an eyebrow at the clipped words. "Yes," she replied but offered nothing more.

She could practically hear the man glaring at her.

"Listen, sweetheart – "

"May I ask who's calling?" Amelia countered before the man could continue, trying to regain her composure while still following protocol from when she had worked as a receptionist.

The man hesitated. "Dean," he replied and then chuckled self-consciously, as if even _he_ couldn't believe he was making this call; as if he thought he would never again have the chance to talk with Sam.

Amelia blinked. "Excuse me?" she blurted; her tone sharp as she changed positions, the news causing her to sit completely upright on the mattress.

Because she only knew of one person in Sam's life who had that name...and that person was dead.

Sam's brother was dead.

Sam had said so; had cried when he had first told her and even now would tear up at the mention of Dean's name; the pain of losing his big brother soul-crushingly deep.

And now some asshole was calling Sam's phone and claiming to be Dean?

Um...no.

_Hell no. _

No fucking way was some prank-calling jackass gonna get his kicks by wounding Sam like that.

_No fucking way._

Not on Amelia's watch.

And especially not when Sam was already sick and weak.

Amelia clenched her jaw as a wave of protectiveness surged through her, and she reached for Sam in the moonlit room; her hand once again resting on his back as he slept beside her, completely oblivious to the call from the grave.

Amelia snorted soundlessly and shook her head in disgust, wondering what kind of sick bastard would play this kind of game.

At the foot of the bed, Riot watched her intently; his ears twitching anxiously as he sensed the intense emotions welling within her.

Amelia exhaled a slow, deliberate breath; refusing to allow this asshole to get under her skin.

"Hello?" she prompted when the phone connection suddenly filled with static.

"Yeah, I'm here," the man answered. "I'm on back roads right now, so..."

The man's voice trailed off, not needing to elaborate on how back roads often screwed with cellphone connections.

Amelia said nothing, becoming aware of the faint hum of an engine in the background and wondering where this guy was.

Was he coming to their house?

She sure as hell hoped not.

Amelia swallowed, her mouth dry from the heat of anger. "What did you say your name was?"

The response came with no hesitation this time; the prank caller apparently finding his balls and committing to his role.

"Dean," the man told her and then paused. "Sam's brother," he added before pausing again. "I'm not sure if he's told you – "

" – of course he has," Amelia snapped and then literally bit her tongue, refusing to play this asshole's game.

Because contrary to what he had just said, this man was _not_ Dean.

Dean was dead.

"He has, huh?" the man asked about Sam having mentioned Dean to her, and Amelia could hear the man smiling; could hear how pleased and proud that made him.

And she wondered if this man would be so pleased and proud if he knew how heartbroken and lost Sam had sounded when he had called for Dean in his fevered sleep over the past week. She wondered if this man even realized how much pain this call would've caused Sam if Sam had been the one to answer this evening; if Sam had been awake and lucid enough to answer the phone before she had.

Amelia swallowed, briefly closing her eyes at what a fucking nightmare that would've been; briefly offering thanks that Sam was peacefully sleeping beside her instead of having his heart stomped on by some dickhead who needed to stop prank calling and get a fucking life.

"Does he still have my baby?" the man asked fondly.

Amelia opened her eyes at the question; vaguely impressed that, based on what little she knew, this man certainly had the role of Sam's brother perfected; knew their history and knew which terms they used to refer to which things.

...like "baby" referring to Dean's car; that classic '67 black Chevy Impala that sat out in their driveway.

The car that Sam drove; the car he would sometimes just sit in for hours.

The car Amelia could see the outline of right now behind the curtains of their bedroom window.

Amelia's gaze rested on the familiar silhouette before glancing at Riot still curiously staring at her from the foot of the bed and then refocusing on Sam as he shifted beside her on the mattress in his sleep.

On instinct, she reached for him; rubbing his fever-warm back and smiling softly as he stilled beneath her touch; reminded of how much he meant to her, how much she loved him, and how much she wanted to protect him from the asshole intending harm.

Amelia sighed, returning her attention to the phone she held. "How did you get this number?"

The man chuckled at her question. "I can always track down, Sammy," he told her, spoken like a true big brother.

And again, Amelia was vaguely impressed with how well this man was playing his role of impersonating Sam's Dean.

"Nobody knows that kid like me," the man continued, his tone genuine and affectionate.

Amelia narrowed her eyes, almost liking the man in that moment.

But no...he was only playing a game.

And a cruel one, at that; one she would not allow to hurt Sam.

"Even after everything..." the man added.

The statement nostalgic and seeming to be said more for him than for her.

The man cleared his throat. "Anyway..." he sighed. "Let me talk to Sam."

Amelia blinked at the demand from the opposite end of the line, glaring at the man's presumptuousness and feeling her earlier protectiveness return.

Because there was no fucking way this man was talking to Sam.

Even if Sam wasn't sick and exhausted, there was still no way she would ever willingly let someone upset him – especially not an impersonator claiming to be Dean.

Amelia shook her head, drawing her legs up beneath her as she continued to sit on the bed next to Sam. "No," she responded simply to the man's demand, one hand rubbing between Sam's shoulders while the other held the phone.

"It wasn't a question," the man pointed out, instantly annoyed and newly suspicious at her refusal to put Sam on the line. "I want to talk to Sam."

"No," Amelia repeated more forcefully, lowering her voice when Sam shifted again.

"Why?" the man growled.

"Because he's asleep," Amelia informed, glancing down at Sam. "And I'm not waking him up." She paused, feeling her anger return. "So _there_, asshole. Find someone else to prank call."

Amelia nodded at her own advice and waited for the fallout.

But whatever.

She wasn't scared.

Not in the least.

If this man wanted to hurt Sam, he would have to go through her first.

And she was ready for battle.

_Come at me, bro. _

Amelia smirked, feeling strangely energized at having the opportunity to put this jackass in his place.

The man snorted. "This ain't a prank call, sweetheart," he replied coolly. "And why is Sam asleep at 8:00 at night?"

Amelia ignored his question. "Not a prank call?" she challenged instead. "Right. So, I guess you expect me to believe that Sam's dead brother has risen from the grave and is just reaching out to check on his little brother."

"I don't care what you believe," the man returned.

And Amelia believed that.

"Why is Sam asleep so early?" the man persisted, concern in his voice. "Is he sick?"

Amelia blinked, once again almost liking this man.

Because he sounded like he was worried, like he cared about Sam.

And who else but a big brother would so quickly realize that if a guy Sam's age was in bed and asleep at 8:00 at night, then it probably meant he was sick.

"Is he?" the man pressed.

And for some reason, Amelia knew the man's grip had tightened on the steering wheel of whatever he was driving as he traveled the back roads of wherever he was and waited for her answer.

But before she could respond, Sam did; not verbally but in the form of a wet, chest-rattling cough.

Amelia grimaced at the painful sound and glanced down at Sam as he shifted beside her restlessly.

"Whoa," the man commented, having obviously heard Sam's cough and taking it as confirmation of his suspicion that Sam was sick. "That sounds like bronchitis."

And it was.

Amelia narrowed her eyes, wondering how the man had diagnosed that so easily over the phone.

"Respiratory infections always go straight to his lungs," the man remarked worriedly and then sighed. "How's his fever? Holding steady?"

"Yes."

"And he's on meds, right?"

Amelia nodded. "Yes, of course."

"And he's taking them?"

"Yes."

"Good," the man replied. "But I bet he's being a stubborn little shit about eating and drinking..."

Amelia laughed softly before she could stop herself. "Oh my god _yes_," she agreed, strangely comforted that this man seemed to understand how frustrating Sam had been about that over the past week.

But wait...

Amelia blinked and shook herself, her light feeling instantly vanishing as she realized just how damn good this man was. How he had effortlessly just sucked her in to his game and momentarily made her play along; made her believe that he was Dean, that he was Sam's big brother who knew Sam like no other.

But no.

Dean was dead.

And as much as the remembered realization stung Amelia, she couldn't imagine how much it would've pierced through what was left of Sam's heart if this impersonator had gotten to him tonight.

Thank god she had answered Sam's phone instead.

_Thank god._

Amelia swallowed, feeling on the verge of tears from despair and rage; both emotions intensifying with each heartbeat.

On the opposite end of the line, the man seemed to sense the dramatically dark turn of her mood. "Amelia..."

"You're good," Amelia told him, the praise cold and angry. "You're _really_ good."

"Okay..." the man allowed, sounding confused as to where this was going.

"For a minute there, I almost believed you," Amelia confessed and shook her head at how momentarily naïve she had been. "But you're not Dean," she continued, her voice cracking at the pain she felt for Sam's sake that his brother was dead.

Because she knew how badly Sam wished that wasn't true; knew how much he missed Dean.

She had seen his tears, even the ones he had tried to hide.

And her heart broke for him, knowing she could never truly ease that hurt.

Amelia exhaled a shaky breath. "You're not Dean," she repeated to the man on the phone. "Because Dean is dead."

"I can see where Sam would think that," the man responded seriously. "I can see where he would _tell_ you that, but – "

" – no," Amelia replied evenly, refusing to be sucked back into this man's game. "No," she said again, more firmly. "You're _not_ Dean. And I'm not sure how you found Sam...or how you know so much about him...but you are _not_ talking to him."

"Amelia – "

" – and you're not talking to me anymore, either," Amelia informed coolly, instantly done with this asshole and irritated with herself for entertaining his malicious game for this long.

"Amelia..." the man tried again, his patience thinning.

She ignored him.

"I'm hanging up now," Amelia told him. "And I'm gonna cancel this number and never mention to Sam that we had this conversation. Because you're _not_ Dean."

"Amelia..." the man began once more, a hint of respect in his voice at Amelia's obvious protectiveness of Sam. "Listen – "

" – no, _you_ listen," Amelia countered sharply. "I suggest you get a fucking life and never try to contact Sam again. Do you hear me?"

The man snorted at her suggestion, clearly accepting it as a challenge. "Sounds like you fight for what you want and protect what you love."

Amelia nodded at the accurate description. "I do," she confirmed.

"So do I," the man responded smoothly. "And I'm coming for Sam. So you take care of him until I get there...and then we'll see who he chooses."

Amelia swallowed – frightened more by the man's confidence in Sam's decision than by the implication of his actual threat – and opened her mouth to speak...but closed it when the man promptly hung up on her.

Amelia blinked.

There was a beat of stunned silence as she stared at the phone before quickly powering it off and then holding it against her chest; closing her eyes as she felt her heart race.

..._I'm coming for Sam...and then we'll see who he chooses. _

But that was ridiculous.

There was no choice for Sam to make because Dean was dead.

And whoever Amelia had just spent the last ten minutes talking to was a total whacko who was probably only bluffing about coming to their house; was instead looking up the next number on his list to prank call.

But how had the man known so much?

_That_ was what unnerved Amelia.

Beside her, Sam shifted on the mattress; his legs moving restlessly beneath the blankets as his head wallowed on the pillow.

"'Melia..."

Riot wagged his tail at the sound of Sam's quiet, hoarse voice.

Amelia opened her eyes, her attention snapping to Sam.

"'Melia..." he called again, opening his eyes as well and squinting up at her.

Amelia smiled. "Hey..." she greeted warmly, setting Sam's phone on her nightstand and then easing herself back down beside him; consciously rearranging her expression to hide her distress.

But she had been too late.

Even sick and half asleep, Sam had seen.

Amelia maintained her smile anyway. "How are you feeling?" she checked, slipping her hand beneath his bangs and gauging his fever to be about the same.

Sam ignored her question, opting for one of his own. "S'wrong?" he asked her inside of a cough and then swallowed as if doing so was painful.

Amelia shrugged with the shoulder not resting against the mattress as she laid beside him. "Nothing," she assured even as her heart continued to hammer in her chest while she replayed the conversation she had only moments before with whoever had been at the opposite end of Sam's phone.

Sam frowned. "Did somebody call?"

Because he had the vague sense that maybe somebody _had _called...or maybe he had dreamed it. The fatigue and the medications and the overall sickness were blending his reality and dreams these days.

Sam sighed. "'Melia..."

Amelia hesitated, tempted to lie...but deciding against it. "Yes," she told him about someone having called. "But don't worry about it," she added quickly. "It was just a wrong number. I handled it. Everything's fine."

But the more she thought about it, the more unnerved Amelia felt.

Sam looked doubtful at her explanation but was too exhausted to pursue the issue further.

A wrong number was a wrong number.

And if Amelia said everything was fine, then fine.

Sam had other things to worry about...like trying to breathe.

He sighed hoarsely and then coughed again, the sound harsh and wet.

Amelia wrinkled her forehead in concern and sympathy. "Easy," she soothed and resumed rubbing Sam's back. "Do you want some water?"

Sam shook his head as another round of coughing erupted from his chest, leaving him gasping for air.

"Shh..." Amelia comforted, her hand moving back and forth between his shoulders.

Sam sighed, the sound weak and breathless.

Amelia frowned, hating how miserable he was.

At the foot of the bed, Riot yawned loudly and stretched out with a sigh of his own.

Amelia quirked a tired smile at their dog and then glanced at Sam. "Go to sleep," she urged him as well; wanting Sam to rest, wanting that peaceful feeling back that had been shattered by the man's phone call.

Sam hummed his agreement with the suggestion of sleep; his congested inhalations slowly evening out.

Amelia continued to rub his back – the rhythmic motion soothing her as well as him – and stared into the darkness of their room as she laid beside him on the bed.

..._I'm coming for Sam...and then we'll see who he chooses. _

Amelia shook her head against her pillow as the man's words echoed in her mind, telling herself that her fear was ridiculous; that she needed to relax.

Because no one was coming for Sam.

Sam wasn't going anywhere.

The man who had called wasn't Sam's brother and wasn't coming to their house.

It had just been a game; a malicious prank call.

But it was over now.

Sam was with her and would _stay_ with her.

Because the only person who could ever persuade Sam to leave was his brother...and Sam's brother was dead.

_Dean was dead. _

...wasn't he?

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_**Originally intended to be a one-shot and thus FIN at this point. But due to an amazing amount of reader requests, it's TBC now. :)**_


	2. Chapter 2

The night had gone from good...with Sam seeming to feel better and them both resting comfortably beside each other on their bed with Riot – to bad...with any sense of peace and security shattered by a ten-minute phone call.

Even now, several hours later, Amelia's heart raced when she thought of the man's voice so confident and smooth in her ear as she had sat on their bed, one hand rubbing Sam's back as he had continued to sleep while the other had clutched Sam's cellphone.

Even now she felt like throwing up as she remembered how the stranger had told her that he was coming – coming for _Sam_.

Amelia swallowed, even now telling herself that wasn't true; that the man was probably just some middle-aged loser who lived in his parents' basement; just some asshole who got his kicks from randomly prank calling people when he wasn't jacking off.

She had told herself that for hours along with several other versions of the bastard's pathetic existence; had even conjured images of what he must look like huddled in the dark corner of that basement, all tucked inside the safety of anonymity as he ruined strangers' evenings by making his way through his list of numbers to prank.

But if she was honest, Amelia knew that wasn't true, either.

As much as she wanted to believe otherwise, Amelia knew the man she had talked with on Sam's phone hadn't been a prank caller.

She knew the call hadn't been random.

And she knew it hadn't resulted from a misdialed number.

Quite the opposite.

The call had been planned, and the number had been precisely dialed, probably even double-checked beforehand to ensure its accuracy.

Because the man had known exactly who he was calling – Sam – and exactly what he wanted – _Sam_.

And the more that realization sank in, the more terrified Amelia felt.

Because what was she going to do?

_What was she going to do?_

"I don't know," Amelia admitted to herself quietly as she stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror; her pale face and dark eyes testifying to her stress and fatigue; her mind continuing to buzz in a distracting, dizzying swirl of what ifs.

What if the man had really been Sam's brother?

What if Dean was really alive?

What if Dean was really coming for Sam?

What if Sam wanted to leave with him?

What if, what if, _what if...?_

"Enough..." Amelia hissed, closing her eyes and trying to stop the unending loop of questions beginning to drive her crazy. "Enough..." she repeated and physically shook herself as she gripped the edge of the sink.

Knowing part of why she felt so strung out was because she hadn't slept since the man had called but had instead laid beside Sam on their bed for the past six hours and had replayed the conversation over and over and over.

Amelia shook her head in frustration. _"Enough,"_ she said once more, hoping she was actually listening to herself this time.

Because truthfully, if Dean was alive...and if he was coming for Sam...and if Sam wanted to leave with him...then there wasn't a damn thing Amelia could do about it.

And that was that.

But this was all ridiculous.

People didn't crawl out of their graves.

...which meant she was worrying for nothing.

Because she was sorry for Sam – she truly was – but Dean was dead...which meant Dean wasn't coming for Sam. And that was just as well because Sam was happy with her...and she was happy with him...and everything was going to be okay.

_Everything was going to be okay._

Amelia sighed, opening her eyes and feeling marginally calmer than she had moments before when she had entered the bathroom inside their room.

"Relax, Amelia..." she told herself, ignoring the shaking of her hands as she reached in one of the top drawers of the bathroom's vanity; wincing as she roughly pulled her brush through her tangled hair and then twisted the bundled strands into a messy ponytail.

Amelia sighed again as she stood there in front of the sink, trying to pull herself together and focus.

Because as unnerving as the conversation had been earlier with whoever had called Sam's phone claiming to be Dean, she now had bigger, more immediate problems than the stranger's supposed imminent arrival.

...like Sam's rising fever and potentially worsening condition.

Both of which had become her primary concern about 20 minutes ago.

Amelia nodded, remembering the heat she had felt radiating from Sam's body as she had laid beside him...and remembering why she had come back to the bathroom – to return the thermometer and to retrieve a washcloth.

"Right," Amelia agreed, glancing at the thermometer on the counter by the sink and then reaching for a washcloth from the cabinet on the wall above the toilet; further grounding herself in having something to do.

Because maybe or maybe not some whacko was about to show up on their front porch claiming to be Dean; but right now, Sam needed _her..._and _that _was what she was going to focus on – not that stupid phone call.

Amelia nodded in agreement with herself and sighed, slowly exhaling her anxiety.

"Okay..." she commented, turning on the faucet and holding the washcloth beneath the cold water, hoping the coolness of the fabric would help Sam's spiking fever.

As she stood at the sink, a low whine caught her attention, and Amelia glanced down, slightly surprised to see Riot blinking up at her, his ears twitching nervously.

Amelia frowned, shutting off the water and glancing through the crack of the partially closed door; the bathroom's light falling on Sam as he now sprawled on his back, having restlessly flipped himself over from where she had left him sleeping on his stomach only minutes before.

Amelia glanced back at Riot. "Did he kick you out?" she asked the dog teasingly, knowing that was indeed what had happened – the restless movement of Sam's long legs having unintentionally given Riot the boot.

The dog whined again.

"It's okay," Amelia assured, knowing Riot wasn't upset by no longer being able to lounge at the foot of their bed but was instead sensing and reacting to Sam's obvious distress.

And Amelia had to admit that she was also concerned by Sam's increasingly agitated movements as he slept; the fitted sheet bunching beneath him and the blankets no longer covering him because he had kicked those to the floor as well.

Riot whined once more, looking up at Amelia as she lingered in the bathroom's doorway; the dog giving her an expression that implied he clearly expected her to fix Sam.

But Amelia was used to taking care of sick _animals_, not sick people, and she truthfully felt out of her element; her own anxiety increasing as Sam's condition seemed to worsen before her eyes.

And what the hell was that about?

Only hours ago, Sam had seemed to be feeling better.

But now Sam's fever was well over 100 – right at 104 when she had actually checked it a few minutes ago – and his breathing seemed more labored than before.

...which meant what? Was his bronchitis turning into pneumonia?

God, she hoped not.

Amelia sighed as she watched Sam sleep, thinking she should probably see if he would change positions on the bed to maybe help ease his breathing...and she should definitely use the wet washcloth still gripped in her hand to help ease his fever.

Amelia rolled her eyes at the realization and turned back to the sink to freshen the washcloth with cold water once again and then nudged Riot out of the way with her knee as she shut off the faucet.

"Move," she commanded when the dog stubbornly didn't budge from the bathroom's doorway.

Reluctantly, Riot obeyed; his collar and tags jangling as he trotted to the far side of their bedroom and sat down; his anxious gaze flickering between Amelia and Sam.

"Chill out," Amelia told the dog as she left the bathroom light on and crossed to the bed. "You're making me nervous."

And she certainly didn't any help with that.

She was nervous enough with the threat of Sam's dead brother arriving on their doorstep any second...not to mention the reality of Sam's condition steadily becoming worse.

As if to prove it, Sam suddenly began coughing; a horrible gasping noise that literally sounded like he was choking.

"Whoa..." Amelia blurted, startling at the unexpected outburst. "Easy," she soothed, setting the washcloth on the nightstand before perching on the edge of the bed beside him; her hand resting on his leg, her fingers lightly gripping the fabric of his dark blue sweatpants.

Sam continued to cough, seemingly caught in a continuous breathless cycle with each cough harder than the one before, causing the mattress to shake beneath them.

"Easy..." Amelia repeated, her heart beginning to beat faster as Sam struggled for breath.

She watched him, biting her lower lip and never remembering a time when she had felt so helpless.

"Please stop," she whispered like a prayer, willing the coughing to subside and Sam's lungs to cooperate.

But neither happened.

If anything, Sam's coughs seemed to intensify, and Amelia honestly wondered if he would pass out.

And if he did, then what?

"Oh god..." Amelia murmured, because she didn't know then what.

_She didn't know._

A soft whine attracted her attention, and Amelia glanced over her shoulder at Riot now uncertainly standing at the foot of their bed peering over the mattress.

"I don't know what to do," she confessed to the dog and felt panic swell; her own chest tight with the anxiety caused by not being able to help someone she loved.

Determined to do _something_, Amelia reached for Sam; her hand settling on his sternum as she began rubbing his chest in the same way she had rubbed his back earlier; hoping it would have the same comforting effect.

And it seemed to...if only a little.

Unexpectedly, Sam opened his eyes, squinting up at her as though he didn't quite recognize who she was.

Amelia held still, knowing Sam didn't respond well to sudden movements – especially when he was on the edge of incoherence like he was now due to his fevered illness – and forced a smile as he continued to stare at her, praying Sam didn't ask for Dean like he had before in similar moments of confusion over the past week.

Or like he did so often when he would wake from a nightmare.

Or like he used to do when he would simply forget that his brother wasn't there.

Amelia smiled sadly at the memory.

Because thankfully, that didn't happen so much now with almost a year having passed and Sam very much knowing Dean was gone.

But when they had first started living together, Amelia had lost track of how many times Sam would call Dean's name from the other room – as if he wanted to tell or show his brother something – and then would step into the hall and call Dean's name again; his tone often irritated that Dean hadn't responded the first time...until Sam realized why.

Amelia sighed, remembering how devastated Sam would look when that realization hit, how utterly heartbroken and so damn _lost_.

It was hard to watch and impossible to soothe.

But these days, Sam was more careful and hardly ever mentioned Dean's name; the pain too much to bear.

Except in times like this when Sam was vulnerable.

If he was sick or hurt or freshly waking from a nightmare, Amelia always knew exactly who Sam would call for – his brother.

And though it often was a stab to her heart when he would do that, she had grown to realize that she couldn't replace Dean; that Sam might love her but she would never mean to him what Dean had meant to him...and still did.

Even though Sam never talked about it, Amelia knew that Dean meant everything to Sam – even now – and she was confident that Sam had undoubtedly meant everything to Dean.

And if she didn't feel so threatened by their relationship that had somehow remained immeasurably strong even after a year of one of them being dead, she would admit that Sam and Dean's brotherly bond – unbreakable by death – was heartachingly sweet.

But Amelia _did_ feel threatened – especially now, especially since the earlier phone call was still haunting her even as she dealt with the current crisis of Sam's deteriorating condition – and if she heard Dean's name from Sam's lips tonight, she knew she would break.

But Sam said nothing; instead continuing to rest on his back as he noisily gasped for breath and alternated between staring at her and lazily glancing around their room, like he not only didn't know _who_ she was but didn't know _where_ he was, either.

Sam's gaze continued to wander, and Amelia suddenly had the distinct feeling that he was looking for somebody.

_And god, please don't let him call Dean's name. _

Not that she had to worry since Sam had no breath to speak at all.

Amelia frowned, freshly concerned by his lack of oxygen and by how disoriented Sam seemed.

She rubbed his chest a little harder to try to focus his attention. "Hey..." she called to him and waited for Sam to look at her, smiling softly as his blinks became longer with each passing second. "You're okay," she assured him.

He drowsily stared at her.

"You're _safe_," Amelia added, having learned over the past few months that "safe" was the word that Sam always needed to hear to relax. "I promise," she assured.

There was a beat of silence filled with yet another noisy inhalation and then a rasped word spoken with a hoarse, weak voice.

"D'n...?"

Amelia swallowed at the slurred name, knowing this routine well – that when Sam was disoriented like this, it wasn't enough for him to be safe; he needed assurance that _Dean_ was safe, too.

Or else Sam wouldn't relax; wouldn't go back to sleep and get the rest his body so desperately needed to recover from this virus currently kicking his ass.

Sam coughed as he waited for her to respond, seeming to grow more agitated by Amelia's hesitation. "D'n...?" he asked again and made a feeble attempt to push up on his elbows.

Amelia shook her head at Sam's intention, lightly pushing against his chest until he was once again resting on the mattress. "He's fine," she told Sam about Dean and nodded for emphasis, feeling her ponytail bob behind her as the loose strands tickled the back of her neck.

"S – "

" – yes," she interrupted, knowing exactly which single word Sam was going to ask. "Dean's safe," she promised, ignoring how much it hurt her to offer this particular comfort to Sam tonight; the earlier prank call having completely rattled her to her core.

But this was what Sam needed right now...so she would give it to him; his peace of mind more important than her raw emotions further inflamed by paranoia and insecurity.

Sam blinked at her, his expression uncertain.

"It's okay," Amelia soothed, her hand rubbing back and forth over Sam's chest. "You're _both_ safe, and everything is fine. Just relax and go back to sleep."

_Please._

Sam blinked at her again in response, his breaths loud and shallow and entirely too fast.

Amelia shook her head. "Slow and easy," she urged. "_Breathe_ slow and easy," she elaborated after a few seconds. "You're okay. Just breathe..."

Sam coughed instead and then shifted restlessly on the mattress, his sock-clad feet weakly kicking at the edge of the comforter that had somehow managed to hang on the corner of the bed earlier.

Riot barked as the comforter finally fell to the floor, joining the other blankets in their heap.

Sam startled at the sound, his attention flickering to the dog at the foot of the bed before coughing once more and then closing his eyes as suddenly as he had opened them.

Amelia sighed shakily. "You're okay," she told him again, hoping the words followed Sam down into sleep. "You're okay..."

Only she didn't know that.

She didn't know that Sam was okay.

In fact, she seriously doubted it.

Because Sam was struggling for every breath.

And he wasn't just overly warm, he was _hot_; the heat of fever burning through his body and making him uncomfortable to even touch.

Amelia frowned at the realization, her eyes scanning Sam's damp bangs and equally damp t-shirt; both hair and fabric clinging to his sweaty skin.

Amelia sighed. "You're a mess," she told him fondly and continued to rub Sam's chest as she reached for the washcloth on the nightstand. "I don't know what kind of virus you picked up, but you better not make me sick, too," she grumbled, her teasing tone unsuccessfully masking her worry.

Sam coughed again in his sleep; the sound deep and wet and alarmingly strained...like he physically couldn't breathe.

It was disturbing and frightening, and Amelia honestly didn't know what she was going to do if Sam continued to get worse. She knew he hated hospitals and remembered quite clearly their argument earlier in the week when he had refused to go to the doctor. It was only because Amelia had called in a favor with one of her doctor friends that Sam even had meds.

"Stubborn," Amelia commented and shook her head irritably even as she smiled down at Sam.

But Sam was oblivious to her fond annoyance and affectionate teasing, instead coughing harshly and then drawing in a whistling breath, like he was breathing through a clogged straw.

Amelia cringed at the sound as she carefully wiped his flushed cheeks with the cool fabric of the washcloth before folding it and holding it against his forehead. "You're really starting to freak me out," she confided to Sam.

Sam didn't seem to care as he continued to wheeze loudly.

Amelia sighed.

Riot whined again from where he stood at the foot of the bed, lifting his head to see over the mattress.

"I know," Amelia agreed with the dog's obvious distress and then stood from her perch on the bed's edge. "He'll be okay," she soothed Riot – and herself – about Sam's condition and then turned, crossing back to the bathroom to freshen the washcloth.

But Riot whined once more, and Amelia suddenly realized why – because she could hear it now, too.

She narrowed her eyes, holding herself absolutely still as she stood in the bathroom's doorway and listened to the unfamiliar rumble of an approaching car.

Amelia swallowed, instantly remembering the hum of an engine in the background while she had talked with that man who had called Sam's phone earlier.

And remembering the man's parting words before he had hung up on her – _I'm coming for Sam._

"No," Amelia whispered and shook her head in further denial because _no way_ was this actually happening.

Only it was.

It was surreal and terrifying and _most definitely_ happening.

The rumble of the car's approach grew louder as it pulled into the driveway behind the Impala; its headlights flashing through the bedroom window and then shutting off with the engine.

Riot tilted his head as a car door creaked open.

Amelia's heart hammered in her chest.

The car door was eased shut; the driver obviously not wanting to announce his arrival any more than he already had.

Riot's ears twitched as he listened to the driver's boots scuff the paved driveway as the man walked two steps and then stopped.

The dog glanced at Amelia still standing in the bathroom's doorway and then refocused on the window, continuing to listen.

Amelia listened as well, but there was no other sound of movement outside.

Several seconds passed.

"Okay..." Amelia whispered, psyching herself up to go look out the window.

Because that was the only way she was going to know who had just arrived at their house...and what that person was doing in their yard.

Tossing the washcloth into the sink, Amelia glanced at Sam still restlessly sleeping on the bed and then quietly crossed to the window; flattening herself against the wall and peering through the narrow space created by the curtain not fully touching the window frame.

And as expected, there he was.

Well...there _somebody_ was.

Because Amelia had no way of knowing _who_ was currently standing in their driveway.

From her angle by the window, she could barely see him.

But it was definitely a man she didn't recognize driving a car she didn't recognize.

And he was definitely surveying the area, much like Amelia had seen Sam do on several occasions – the man standing motionless as his gaze slowly crawled over absolutely everything; every tree, every bush, every corner of their yard as if he was looking for potential danger...though Amelia had no idea how he saw anything in the dark.

After all, it was – Amelia glanced at the bedside clock across the room – 2:00 in the morning.

Most people were sleeping, not casing a stranger's yard.

Amelia swallowed, feeling her earlier fear and dread return as she continued to watch from her post by the window; her neck beginning to cramp from the awkward way she was holding her body to spy on the man unnoticed.

At least a minute passed.

The man continued to stand motionless in the driveway.

...which was becoming more unnerving by the second.

Amelia sighed, her eyes widening when the edge of the curtain unexpectedly fluttered in reaction to her exhalation.

The movement was slight, but it instantly attracted the man's attention, and he turned to stare at the window where she was standing.

Instinctively, Amelia swallowed a gasp and snatched herself back to dodge the man's line of vision; pushing herself impossibly harder against the wall as if she could blend in with the wallpaper.

But Amelia knew it was useless, knew the man had already seen her.

_Great._

The night just kept getting better and better.

Amelia sighed soundlessly.

Still standing by the foot of the bed, Riot watched her, whining his confusion at what she was doing.

Amelia cut her eyes at the dog, silently commanding him to _shut up_.

Riot whined again at her stern expression but then obeyed; the only sound in the room coming from Sam's noisy breathing and restless movement on the bed.

Amelia focused on Sam for several seconds, visually checking on him, and then took a chance by once again peering out the window behind the thin safety of the curtain.

To her relief, the man was no longer staring at the house, but he _was_ still standing in their driveway.

Another minute passed.

Seeming satisfied that the area was secure, the man finally moved forward, pausing by the Impala and smiling faintly.

Amelia watched him as his hand fondly glided along the Chevy's frame while he walked beside it; his gentle, overly-familiar gesture reminding Amelia of the tidbit Sam had once shared about how much his older brother had loved that car.

...which just further explained why Sam took such good care of the muscle car; why he drove it everywhere and would sometimes just sit in the passenger seat for hours – because the Impala had belonged to Dean.

Just like that ugly necklace Sam used to wear had belonged to Dean, too.

Amelia sighed, vaguely wondering where that necklace was now since Sam hadn't worn it in over a month, and refocused out the window as she continued to watch the man stare at the Impala.

But just because this guy seemed to like the Impala, didn't automatically prove he was Dean.

Because _any_ guy would like the Impala; hell...she was a girl, and _she_ liked the Impala.

So, no.

If this guy was about to show up on her doorstep claiming to be Dean – and Amelia _knew _that's what he was about to do – then he better have a damn good way of proving it.

Otherwise, she would be calling the cops.

She had too much to worry about and take care of – like an alarmingly sick boyfriend – to also deal with a crazy prank caller who took his game too far by actually showing up at somebody's house.

Seriously.

Who did shit like this?

Crazy folks – _that's_ who.

Did this guy's parents even know he had escaped from their basement?

Of course, if they did know, they were probably pleased that he was out trying to meet people. At this rate, maybe he would actually move out of their house one day.

Amelia quirked a smile at her nervous humor and swallowed against her dry throat as she stood by the window and watched the man disappear from sight; the stranger leaving the Impala behind as he rounded the corner of the house.

Amelia swallowed again, knowing without a doubt that the man was now approaching their front porch; knowing without a doubt that one way or another, her life was about to change.

She exhaled a shaky breath as she turned away from the window; her back against the wall in more ways than one as she waited.

* * *

_**TBC**_


End file.
