Disclaimer: I in no way own any rights to Supernatural. I'm just enjoying playing with them for a bit.
A/N: A large portion of this was taken directly from the 2x01 episode "In my Time of Dying", and with my own little addition of Dean's thoughts and reactions. All dialogue is directly from said episode, transcribed as best as I could. That was a hella lotta pausing and playing, just so you know, lol. Hopefully, this rings true with all of you out there!
A/N 2: Any mistakes with grammar, spelling, etc are entirely my own. They're an unfortunate result of being over tired, as I write these after getting off of work. If you happen to notice something I missed, let me know and I'll fix it. I'd like my work to be the best it can be. Thanks for reading! =]
The first time I woke, it was with a gasp and the sensation of choking as Sam's voice yelled for help. The second time, it was to have Sam by my side and a cold pit in my stomach. We talked until the doctor came in, having done his tests while I was still out, and he gave us the good news—I was healed—with a "You must have some kinda angel watchin' over you." Irony at it's finest.
When Dad knocked at the door and asked how I was feeling, I couldn't tell him the truth. I felt ill, queasy inside, wrong somehow. But I told him I was fine. That I was alive, and he nodded. "That's what matters." The expression on his face is a mixture I've never seen before. One I can't quite put my finger on, but the feeling in my gut worsens at the sight.
Sam chooses that moment to start picking a fight, only for his anger to be diffused, circumvented by Dad's admission that he's made mistakes, that he's done the best he can. And when he requests that they not fight anymore, even Sam catches on that something's not right. At his query, though, Dad simply answers that he's tired, asks if Sam could get him some caffeine. Distracts him, watches as he leaves with a proud smile quirking his lips.
My voice is rough from being intubated, but childlike with uncertainty as I speak, glancing Dad up and down. "What is it?" Dad, what's wrong? Why do I feel so awful inside?
Dad sighs before turning to look back at me. "You know, when—when you were a kid, I'd come home from a hunt, and after what I'd seen, I'd be—I'd be wrecked. And you—you'd come up to me, and you'd put your hand on my shoulder and you'd look me in the eye and you'd—you'd say "It's okay, Dad." " His voice breaks a little on the last word, and he pauses to collect himself a moment before continuing. "Dean...I'm sorry."
I hesitate, not sure I want to know the answer. "Why?"
"You shouldn't have had to say that to me. I—I shoulda been sayin' that to you. Y'know, I put too much on your shoulders. I made you grow up too fast. You took care'a Sammy, and you took care'a me. You did that. And you didn't complain. Not once. I just want you to know that I am so proud'a you," he tells me, a single tear spilling down his cheek as he says the last.
I'm uncomfortable, unsure why he's sharing and caring—something we avoid at all costs, normally. Dad just doesn't do chick-flick moments. "This really you talkin'?"
"Yeah. Yeah, it's really me." Dad sniffles. I'm tempted to say "christo" to make sure, but this is Dad. I don't dare.
"Why're you sayin' this stuff?" I'm panicking a little, breath catching slightly on the lump that's risen in my throat. I have to swallow hard to work it back down. Something's wrong. Really, really wrong, and Dad doesn't act like this, and fuck! What aren't you telling me, Dad?!
Dad sighs, steps closer and puts a warm, heavy hand on my shoulder. "I want you to watch out for Sammy, okay?"
"Yeah, Dad, you know I will. You're scarin' me."
"Don't be scared, Dean," Dad tells me, shaking his head a little with an equally small smile. Then he leans closer, whispering those dreaded words. "Promise me that you'll save Sammy, because if you can't, you'll have to kill him." When he pulls back, struggling to keep from crying, I can't say anything at all, and he turns and walks out with a final nod.
I can't! Can't! Can't! I can't kill Sammy! The very idea is anathema, and I can't help trembling a little, the cold, sick pit of my stomach seeming to freeze the rest of my chest while my guts twist and writhe like snakes with dread. The sensation makes me want to puke, and I do, spitting bile into the toilet of the bathroom adjoining my room.
As I'm finishing, I hear a far off cry as hospital staff begin to rush down the hall, alarms blaring as someone calls a code and room number. Seconds later, Sam rushes in, yelling for me. By the look on his face, I know that it's Dad. It takes a minute or two to get my up from my knees, body still weak despite being miraculously healed. A minute or two more for Sam to get me unhooked from the hospital machinery and the IV out, and then he's helping me down the hall as fast as I can move, heading to where we can hear the bustle of nurses and the doctor's voices mingling as they attempt to revive someone. Attempt to revive Dad.
A nurse tries to usher us away when we get to the doorway, but when I utter "No, no, no, that's our dad!" she moves off. I can hear voices in the background, but they're muted and my focus is on Dad.
"Okay, let's try again. An amp of that please."
"Come on," I growl, desperately hoping that the machines'll beep, that they'll do something. Anything.
"Pushing amp...In."
There's no response. "Okay, stop compressions." The doctor's voice. A nurse feels for a pulse and confirms what the blaring machines are telling everyone already. "No pulse."
"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon." It's a half-whispered plea this time, my eyes still on the machines. Dad, please! Don't leave us alone! Don't do this to me. You can't die on me now! Not after all this! Dad...
"Okay, that's it everybody. I'll call it. Time of death, 10:41 am."
It isn't until later, when we discover that the Colt is gone, that everything fits into place. The reaper that was after me. The Colt. The Demon. Dad. Everything he said to me, everything he said to Sam—he was saying goodbye. I was dead, being kept alive only because of the machines I'd been hooked up to, and he'd traded his life—his soul—for mine to the Yellow-Eyed Demon. He was going to Hell. Over me... For me.
And the worst part? I didn't—couldn't—say goodbye.