Discl.: Everything belongs to the cw and the creators of Supernatural.
A/N: No beta, so all mistakes are mine. Sue me.
A mother's touch
John was fairly certain that if looks could kill, he'd be dead by now. In the beginning there had been many sympathetic glances, knowing half-smiles and understanding nods. But now, 1.5 hours later, Sam's cries had worn everyone's patience down like sandpaper.
But they couldn't possibly blame John. He had already tried everything. He had changed the diaper, had quietly sang to Sam in the toilet where nobody could hear. He had fed the boy, rubbed his back, spoken softly to him, but so far, nothing was working.
And at the same time, John felt like punching the wall in front of him, his own nervousness breaking through every cell of his body and probably only adding to Sam's discomfort.
Taking the cue when another pair of annoyance-filled eyes met his own, John turned around and marched outside, giving the people in the hospital's waiting room a few minutes of peaceful quiet. Wandering around the nearby park, Sam's heartbreaking cries were only slightly absorbed by the cold night air.
"Hey Sammy… It's OK, come on, buddy…"
Rubbing his hand affectionately over the back of the twenty-month year old child, John sighed. His arms felt dead after carrying around 24 pounds of little boy for hours now, but the last time he had tried to put Sam down, the screams had intensified, so he refrained from trying again.
John's ears hurt from the constant sobbing and wailing and his nerves were spiked with fear. He should be worrying about Dean, should be pacing the waiting room and wait for the doctor to return with news. Instead he was unsuccessfully trying to soothe his younger son. What a picture of a father he made.
Sam shivered in his arms, and John took it as signal to return inside.
Sam's voice was hoarse by now; paying tribute to the hours of constantly straining his vocal cords. John wished Sam would finally give in to sleep which was tugging at his consciousness, but the little boy ignored it for the sake of crying.
A nurse walked by and brushed her hand over Sam's soft hair. She sympathetically glanced at John and smiled gently.
"Don't worry, hospitals are unsettling for children. Sometimes only a mother's touch can calm them down and take away the fear."
The painful memories of Mary's death hit John forcefully and he swallowed. While biting back the tears he nodded at the woman, not trusting his voice to cooperate.
Great. Fucking perfect. Now his heart felt even heavier, as if a crying baby and a son in surgery wasn't enough.
John needed Mary. Needed her every moment he was awake, every second he was asleep. He needed her so desperate that his heart ached every time he looked into Dean's deep, green eyes or Sam's pudgy baby face, just to see his late wife mirrored in both of them. Nobody had prepared him for this, had told him what to do when – from one moment to another – he was left a single dad with two little boys to take care of.
A mother's touch. Right now, he wished more than anything else, that he could give Sam exactly that.
"Mr. Winchester?"
John swirled around and faced the approaching doctor.
"Dean is out of surgery now. Everything went very well; he'll be up and running again soon."
"Can I see him?"
"Well… parents are allowed in the recovery room, but I'm afraid no children." Looking around the waiting room, the doc's eyes returned to John and he suggested, "Maybe your wife can take your younger son, so you could see Dean? The little boy seems pretty upset."
John ignored the repeated stab in his heart and licked his lips.
"I… the boys… my wife died."
"I'm sorry."
The white-clad man looked uncomfortable and drew his eyebrows together while sympathetic eyes inspected John's tired features.
"Maybe a nurse could –"
"I'm not leaving my son," John's voice was firm.
"Well, then…" once more, judging eyes swept over John and the wailing baby. Noticing the trembling arms, the black rings under John's eyes and the exhaustion radiating from his entire being, the doctor sighed.
"Follow me."
John let out a sigh of relief and shifted Sam's weight in his arms. Following the other man towards the surgery wing, he tenderly spoke to Sam and brushed a gentle hand over his hair.
Quietly pushing the door to the recovery room open, the doctor motioned John to enter.
"Thank you," John wholeheartedly breathed.
"I'm a father, too," the doctor answered, nodded with understanding eyes and left.
Sam's head was still pressed deeply into John's shoulder, hot tears wetting the shirt. The boy's wailing had quieted slightly and was now interrupted by occasional hitches and hiccups. John hoped he wouldn't disturb anyone, but soon realized that there was only one patient in the room.
Approaching Dean's bed, John swallowed at the pallor of his oldest son. His freckles and his lashes stood in stark contrast to the milk-like skin. Dean's brows were slightly drawn together as if he were frowning in his sleep, one hand lying protectively over the bandage where they had cut him open to remove the appendix.
John carefully lowered himself onto the mattress on Dean's left side, to keep Sam's kicking legs away from Dean's wound. Holding Sam with one arm in place, he reached out and brushed a trembling hand over the blond locks of his older son. One lonely tear trickled down his cheek when relief and exhaustion washed over him.
"Look Sammy, Dean's fine."
At the mentioning of his big brother's name, Sam's head reappeared and his little fingers released their iron grip on his father's sleeves. The boy tried to turn around, his cheeks wet from fresh tears and his voice raspy when he chortled.
"Deeen".
Fighting to be released from his father's grip, Sam stretched both hands towards his brother and screamed loudly and heartbreakingly, desperate to reach his brother physically.
"Sammy, ssshhhhh. Dean's sleeping."
But Sammy was too young to understand, and John was too tired to fight him any longer. Placing the child on the mattress, Sam immediately crawled over to Dean and studied his big brother's face, little fingers poking Dean's arm while sobs hitched from his throat.
"Sammy, be careful. Dean's been sick, he needs to sleep to get better," John admonished with strict voice.
Sam stopped immediately; already able to distinguish when his father's voice meant business. Sitting back on his bum, the little boy grasped Dean's index finger into his tiny little hand and waited, his soft wailing the only noise in the room.
John rubbed his temples and brushed a hand over his tired eyes. Sammy had been crying an awful lot right after Mary died, missing his mother like Dean and John himself, but unable to understand and express his sorrow. But lately, the boy had turned into a bundle of energy. Racing around the motel rooms on wobbly legs, reaching for everything he could lay hands on and gurgling a steady stream of sounds. Most of these sounds remained a mystery to John, but he was pretty sure Dean did understand. The boys had grown so close – had been forced to with his studying of books and learning the dark skills, with his quest to find whatever had killed his Mary.
John returned his attention to his sons when Sam sucked in air. Glancing at Dean, John noticed how his son's eyelids fluttered open, green eyes blinking at the dim lights of the room.
"Hey, Dean."
Dean acknowledged his father's presence with a relieved sigh, but his eyes were already searching, looking for something – or someone – else. Relaxing when he spotted Sam, a small smile curled Dean's lips and softened his features.
As if Sam understood, the little boy crawled forward and pressed his body into Dean's side. Settling his head on Dean's shoulder, Sam reached out and clasped his small fingers around Dean's neck.
"'s OK, Sammy…..I'm here."
And John observed in awe how Sam stopped crying entirely and slipped into sleep the moment his brother's arm wrapped around his small body and gently brushed down his back.
Swallowing down tears, John wondered, not for the last time, if this closeness would bring the brothers salvation or doom.
The End.
A/N: This was written in a state of depression and I have no idea if it makes any sense, but I needed it off my chest. Writing is therapeutical, people.