Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters belong to Eric Kripke and the CW. No copyright infringement intended.
Spoilers for season 1 and the beginning of season 2.
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Too Much at Stake
The night was pitch black. The motel parking lot was full, but not a single welcoming light shone from any of the windows. Even the motel office was dark. There used to be a time when he'd come home from a job well done to a house lit with warmth.
Those days were over. There was no house. No warmth; only a cold that had more to do with the chill in his soul than the actual temperature. The bleakness of the days seemed to bleed into the empty solace of the nights and there were times he believed the cycle wouldn't end--that he would die of the emptiness.
Like tonight.
Even though success clung to his skin in the way of ash and smoke, he still felt defeated. One less evil thing roamed the world, but it did not take away the ache of his loss, the weariness in his bones.
Mary was still gone.
John would carry that pain until he drew his last breath.
With a deep-seated sigh, he dragged himself away from where he was leaning against the Impala. Steps heavy, he walked to the motel room he temporarily called home and entered.
John sat on his bed and stared across at the other. His two boys were asleep. Eleven year-old Dean was curled on his side, facing John. Sam was sprawled on his back behind his brother, taking up most of the bed.
Two boys with no mother. And, John had to admit, sometimes with no father. It was a sad truth and he carried the guilt of it. The pain in his heart deepened as he realized that his sons would not be allowed the same carefree childhood other children had. He used to blame the demon for that, but he knew it was his fault, too. He didn't need to drag them along on the hunt. Hell, he didn't have to hunt, period.
But the demon was still out there. Its agenda was unclear, although John had a good idea. He definitely knew what it was capable of. John looked over at Sam. No, he couldn't stop hunting. There was too much at stake.
Losing Mary had been devastating. He lived with that every day. To lose one of his children would kill him. They were all he had left. They were the best of him and Mary.
John dropped his head into his hands, his elbows on his knees. It had only taken a moment for his life to disintegrate into this hellish existence. The only hope he had was that somehow his boys would make it through unscathed.
It was a dwindling hope.
Each time he saw Dean walk across stained carpet littered with cigarette burns, or tucked Sammy underneath worn and faded bedspreads, John knew they lost some of their innocence. He had that point driven home like a blade through the heart when his oldest had to tend to his father's wounds after a hunt...after John had left him alone to care for his brother in the first place. Dean was growing up too fast and if he weren't careful Sammy would suffer the same fate.
John shook his head. No, that wouldn't happen. Dean wouldn't allow it. That was a certainty John could put money on. Dean would take care of Sammy just like he took care of John.
He felt like a failure. Fathers didn't depend on their sons...not when they were only seven, or nine, or eleven. Not at four do you place a six month-old sibling in their arms and expect them to carry the responsibility for the rest of their lives.
John ran a shaky hand across his brow and wondered if he'd ever do right by his sons.
"Dad?"
The whispered query brought his head up. "Hey, Dean, you should be asleep."
"I'm awake."
"I can see that," John responded.
Dean tilted his head and frowned at him. John felt as if his son was trying to see right into him. He wondered what Dean was looking for, what he saw.
John shifted, the scrutiny making him uncomfortable. "Dean," he started, but was interrupted by a small whimper from the other bed.
"Shh, little brother. It's all right. Dad's home and everyone is safe. Go back to sleep."
Emotion welled in John's chest--sadness, a bit a pride, an overwhelming love--as he watched Dean comfort Sam until he fell back to sleep. The little boy in Dean was almost gone, the man taking his place, and John felt the ache of his failure all over again.
John could still fight to keep the little boy though, even if it was a losing battle. He cleared his throat. "Dean, it's late. You should get back to sleep, too."
Dean looked back at him. When he got out of bed and walked over to him, John opened his mouth to make the suggestion an order. He snapped it shut when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"We're fine, Dad. It's okay."
The memory faded and John was left with the echo of Dean's words. An echo wasn't good enough, though. He wanted the real thing. Despite his desperate hope, John knew it wasn't going to happen.
He sat in his wheelchair, shoulders sagging. In the time he had spent at his son's bedside, Dean's condition had not changed. The wheeze of the respirator reminded John that Dean was still closer to dying than to living.
It wasn't right, but John had a plan. It was his turn to make things okay.
The End.