Surviving the Fire
Author: Lady Sam Mallory
Disclaimers: Boys not mine; I just borrow them from time to time when the muse moves me.
Special Thanks to: My exceptional Beta Queen, Zoe, without whom I'd be doomed to a life of grammatical inaccuracy. You are truly my Conductor of Light. Thank you for over 30 years of friendship and fandoms.
For my beautiful friend, Heather, whose incredible command of the English language allows her to provide me with individually needed words at a moment's notice.
Warnings: H/C, Angst, Smarm, Some violence and usually a bit of colorful language.
Spoilers: None, if you've seen the pilot.
Author's Comments: Starts at the beginning. Stand Alone. Takes place the night of THE FIRE and the next day.
"Oh my God, Mary…" John thinks as he clutches baby Sam tightly to his chest. His chin resting on his precious baby's head, he feels Dean grabbing his arm and trying to press tighter into his side.
"It's ok, buddy. I've got you," he reassures his boy as Dean whispers, "Where's mommy?" John gazes down at his older son, noting that the boy is unable to pull his shuttered gaze from the flames laying claim to the only home the boy has ever known.
John swallows convulsively, his watery eyes closing heavily.
"Daddy, you're squishing me," Dean whines, squirming to gain a little breathing room.
John's eyes crinkle with understanding and pain, before replying, "Sorry about that, buddy. Daddy just needed to hug you super tight for a minute. I should be good now. Thanks, pal."
Dean smiles adoringly at his father. Sammy begins to fuss as a female police officer steps over to the family, still reeling with the shock of so much trauma.
"Sir? My name is Officer Lambert. I'm with the Lawrence PD. If you'll follow me, we can take your family someplace safer," she finishes with an understanding smile.
John's dazed glance barely registers the kindness nor the interruption. Mary is gone. That's not possible. They were happy. They were a family. They were his everything. What the hell would he do now?
"Daddy?" Dean's small voice penetrates his raging thoughts.
"I'm here, Dean" John promises, as he shifts Sammy to accommodate his older son. "I'm right here," he reaffirms and holds Dean a little closer.
Officer Lambert tries again. "Sir, did you hear me?" she inquires, laying a gentle hand on the large man's shoulder to gain his attention. "We need to move, sir," she commands, and he follows her gaze to the smoldering house as she finishes, "before they bring out the body."
John glares at the young officer. "Her name was Mary, and I won't leave her," he hisses.
Officer Lambert turns to look again at the house and then shifts her gaze to the ambulance, where two young paramedics are unloading the gurney and equipment to retrieve the young mother's body.
She smiles sadly, "Mr. Winchester, do you really want your son to see this?" She questions plaintively, bringing John's attention to the retrieval crew heading up the sidewalk to the house.
John's eyes widen as he realizes what's about to happen. Damn, if he wants to leave his wife alone, but there's no way in hell Mary would forgive him if Dean watches as her body is removed from the house. He could scarcely forgive himself for the trauma it would cause his young son.
Taking a deep breath around the stone boulder in his chest, he turns back to Officer Lambert and whispers hoarsely, "No."
John lifts Dean from the cold metal car into his arms along with his Sammy.
Officer Lambert reaches out for the baby saying, "Sir, let me help you with one of them."
"I've got 'em," John's terse words stop the young officer mid action. Glancing at his hard features, she nods and turns away, gesturing for him to follow.
Closing his eyes, he makes a most difficult decision. His eyes open, laced with pain and regret, then he turns and walks away from his beloved wife with his boys cradled in heavy arms against his shattered heart.
"Let's go," he commands as they move away from the one event in his life that could possibly crush his soul.
He survived his father's disappearance when he was a small child.
He fought his way through a difficult childhood, often dealing with the cruelty of his peers who lacked understanding about his father's leaving.
He endured and thrived in the Marine Corp.
Hell, he even managed to carry on after Vietnam.
But, the loss of Mary…the love of his life…his sole reason for the peace he's known after so much. He may not survive that at all.
John sighs as he rolls the ice from his leftover whiskey, then glances at his boys sleeping in the motel bed.
Taking a deep breath, around the constant pain in his heart, he sips the watered- down alcohol, knowing this is the only drink he will allow himself, so he can be there for his boys.
Tears roll down his face as he realizes that gone are the days when Mary would be there to kiss her boys, to love them and take care of them as she always wanted to do.
That role would be his from now on. He sighs heavily, wondering if there's any way he's up to the task. His Mary has always been there for him, for these boys. Now, the responsibility had shifted, and life was going to change drastically for all of them.
The weight he carries overwhelms him, and he drops his head forward, staring sightlessly into his drink. Who would help him now? It had been Mary and him against the world for so long.
His mother had died while he was gone to war. Mary's mother had been murdered, and her father had a heart attack, both on the same night- the night Mary had agreed to be his wife.
"What the hell do I do now?" he asks himself for the hundredth time tonight.
Dean begins to whimper drawing him from his dark thoughts. John pushes himself up from the chair and crosses to comfort his distressed son.
"Shhhh, Dean. It's okay. Daddy's here," he whispers, worrying at yet another disruption in his sweet son's sleep. It was so unlike him. Dean has always slept soundly, even as an infant. Given the trauma of the evening, while the nightmares are expected, they still concern him.
"Daddy's here," he soothes once again, laying his large palm gently on Dean's brow to smooth out the wrinkles from the boy's upset.
Continuing to caress his son's soft, damp hair, he begins to hum "As Time Goes By", the song he barely remembers his father singing to him as a boy. He recalls the music box that often helped him fall asleep and hopes to offer the same comfort to his son.
Dean's angelic face registers peace as his subconscious becomes aware of the safety his father provides.
John glances once more at Dean to ensure that his boy is truly settled, before turning to double check on Sam, sleeping in a corral of pillows next to his big brother.
He smiles as he recollects the courage Dean showed, following orders and taking his brother out of the burning house in a truly frightening set of circumstances. Certainly nothing in his short time on Earth had prepared him for such devastation. Hell, he'd known grown men in Nam who couldn't have operated as efficiently.
The smile fades as he realizes that morning will come too soon, and he will have to break his sweet boy's heart when he tells him that the fire took his mother.
John shudders as the steaming hot water of the hotel shower streams over his exhausted and battered body. Banging through the house to get to Mary, the roar of the fire, and the explosion that hurled him into the hall have taken their toll on him.
Grief and fury wage war to consume him. What in the hell had he been thinking in that house tonight?
There was no way his Mary, his beautiful fighter, had been alive, pinned to the ceiling and bloody. Her sightless eyes would haunt him for the rest of his life. He chokes back tears and drops his head under the spray.
She had been so pale, her skin blanched against the flowing fabric. Her bright red blood soaking her favorite white gown and dripping down on their baby, their sweet Sam. He remembers Sam's cries breaking the spell of that gruesome sight. He knows he grabbed Sam and ran into the hall and ordered Dean to get him to safety, but he went back into that room.
She was so obviously dead and how long did he stand there, staring at the horror? What the hell had possessed him to take that kind of chance?
He sent his babies out of that house alone. He handed off the responsibility to his four-year old son. What the hell was wrong with him?
He could have died. The explosion threw him from the room with such force, he barely scrambled to his feet, down the stairs and out to his boys.
Where would his boys be then?
Mary would have kicked his ass ten ways to Sunday if he had allowed something, anything to hurt their boys.
Something was seriously wrong with the way his Mary died. He knows what he saw.
Swiping water out of his eyes, he relives the traumatic event again and again, knowing that no matter what choices he makes, the end result will always be the same.
His Mary. His soul…is dead.
The hot water washes the tears away, as exhaustion settles over his weary bones.
"What do I do now, Mary?" he mutters, spitting water out of his mouth and trying to come up with any course of action. Suddenly, he knows the answer as surely as he knows his own name.
Protect the boys.
That's all that matters.
Something sinister happened in that house tonight. He could feel the evil crawl across his sensitized nerves when he even thought about those moments in which death was so very near.
"Protect the boys. That's what Mary would demand. What I need…" he murmurs, shutting off the water and reaching for a towel.
"Daddy!" Dean's high pitched scream rents the air, causing John to move into immediate action.
Dashing through the open bathroom door, he skids to a halt next to the bed.
Dean is bent over his baby brother, patting his back.
"Help him, Daddy. Something's wrong," Dean begs as he looks up at his father beseechingly.
John glances down at Sammy, who seems to be choking, only to see bloody vomit staining the bedspread as well as his pajamas.
"Oh God," he cries out, grabbing up the baby and scooping his fingers through baby Sam's mouth to search for obstructions as well as the source of the blood. Sammy cries fitfully, gagging as John works to clear his mouth, his chubby fists clenched as he wails.
"Grab a towel, Dean," John orders, without hesitation, as he continues to ensure that Sam can breathe.
The baby wails louder as John tears the phone off the nightstand, while ensuring Sammy remains face down across his arm.
"Yeah, this is John Winchester, Room 221. I need an ambulance. It's the baby. Hurry!" he orders, pulling on his sweat pants, then sitting on the bed with +-the baby prone across his lap. He reaches over and touches Dean on the shoulder to keep the boy calm.
Dean frets as he pats Sammy's kicking legs with small shaking hands. "What's wrong with him, Daddy?"
John shakes his head, "I don't know," he admits tightly, "but help's on the way."
"We need a band aid for the blood. Mommy always has the band aids. Is Mommy getting them from the store?" Dean asks innocently, his large green eyes focused on his brother's struggle.
John turns Sam over to check him again as he grabs the diaper bag the police department left with him earlier. "I know Mommy gets the band aids, Dean," he chokes out softly. "Help will be here soon. Just help me keep Sammy calm."
Dean nods and pats Sammy's back as he whispers repeatedly, "It's okay, baby. I'm your big brother. I'm here to keep you safe. Right, Daddy?"
"That's right, buddy," John responds distractedly, trying to calm his fussing baby as Sam vomits violently once again into his lap and down the side of the bed. The red streaks in the vomit cause John's stomach to fall to his knees.
Dean grimaces at the mess. "That's gross, Daddy."
A bark of laughter escapes before John realizes, and he looks endearingly at his beautiful son. "It sure is," he comforts Dean while patting the baby's back with extra care. "Where the hell is that ambulance?" John grits out between clenched teeth.
Dean places a small hand on Sammy's cheek. "It'll be okay, Sam," he croons, while rubbing gently. The baby's eyes widen, and he suddenly stops crying to watch his older brother with amazement.
"That's good, Dean. Just keep it up," John breathes, rubbing Sam's back and trying to remain calm for both his boys.
His patience is wearing thin when the door finally opens admitting the paramedics and a frantic motel manager.
John paces the waiting room, keeping a close eye on Dean sleeping on the little sofa across the room. He wipes nervous hands on the borrowed scrubs, feeling only slightly more human after the quick wash and change.
"Come on, come on," he rasps, his worry for his boy and lack of communication from the hospital staff causing him to lose patience.
A woman rocks quietly in the corner, a boy slightly older than his Dean cradled in her arms. His military training is the only reason he even noticed she was there.
"News comes slow when it seems the most important," the woman says attempting to reassure the prowling man. "How old is your boy?" She inquires, her voice a smoky, rasping lilt he found oddly comforting.
John glances over at Dean, who has begun to whimper again. He covers the half dozen steps in seconds to comfort his distressed son. "Shhh, I'm right here," he whispers, placing a kiss on the boy's cheek.
"He's four," John answers distractedly, pausing to glance at the door where they took his baby.
She smiles up at him, "Nightmares? That's sad for a boy so young," she notes, just as Dean settles into restful sleep once again. She reaches her right hand forward, and he notices that there's a piece of paper in it. "In case you, need to talk. We have a lot in common, you know? Both our boys know loss."
John shoves the paper in the pocket of his jacket and turns as the doctor comes into the waiting room.
John stalks toward the doctor like a cougar going after prey, causing the doctor to pause a step, using the clipboard as an added layer of protection against the hulking man in front of him.
"What's going on with my baby? Take me to him, now!" John demands, his eyes flashing with fear and menace.
The doctor clears his throat before beginning, "My name is Dr. Ellis. Please, keep calm and I'll be able to answer any questions. Where's the mother?" the harried doctor inquires, glancing down at the chart, "Mary? Maybe we should wait for her, so…"
John snaps quietly, "She died tonight. House fire. Is Sam ok?"
Dr. Ellis pauses to offer his condolences. "Which is why you requested that we check your son out to make sure he was ok. I think we're on the same page now. I'm sorry about your wife, but your son seems fine. We found no foreign objects or additional blood when we scoped him after we pumped his stomach. There was an unknown substance found in his stomach contents, but kids that age put everything in their mouths, so…." he trails off, gesturing towards the information gathered on his chart. "He's resting. You can take him home, anytime. The nurse will take you back."
John barely registers the nurse's presence as he picks up Dean to follow her back to his baby. The relief he feels is palpable, like a weight in his belly that causes tears to prick the back of his eyes. He lets out a sigh, patting Dean's back as the boy's head comes to rest on his shoulder again in slumber.
They walk into a cold, stark room where Sam rests in the arms of another nurse. She smiles up at him. "Your baby is such a love," she says, rocking him gently.
John finally breathes again as the nurse glances up from the chair.
"Time to wake up, buddy," he says as he bends to put Dean on the floor, then kneels down when it takes the boy a moment to stop swaying sleepily. Standing him up in front of him, he gently taps Dean's face to make sure the boy will keep his feet.
Turning his attention back to the nurse, he reaches forward, still kneeling on bent knee, and she places Sam back into his arms causing him to sigh gratefully.
"See Daddy?" Dean whispers, a small hand on his father's cheek. "I knowed he'd be ok," the boy affirms, ignoring his father's immediate grammar correction. "Mommy always says have faith, 'member Daddy?"
John nods and places his hand gently on the back of the boy's head.
"Daddy?" Dean inquires, his innocent eyes wide open and needing some important answers.
John grimaces, his mouth a tight line slashing across his face. The time had come, and he knew his smart boy was about to lose something precious.
Dean places his hands gently on either side of his father's face, being careful not to crush Sammy between them. "Where's my mommy?"
John leans forward and kisses Dean on the forehead. "Give me one second to make sure Sam's settled and then we can go back to the motel and talk. Ok, buddy?"
Dean nods, his green eyes huge in his small face.
John closes his eyes, places a series of kisses on Sam's downy head and straps him into his car seat. Setting the seat down, he takes Dean's hand in one of his larger ones.
Grabbing the carrier, they set off for the motel. Little could either know that this would be only the first in an unending stream of nondescript motel rooms they would use over a lifetime.
John sighs as he pulls the Impala into the parking space at the motel. Mike Guenther, his partner and fellow mechanic, had brought him his car earlier in the evening when he'd heard about the baby.
He takes a deep breath before turning off the car. He knows that he's stalling for time before shattering his son's innocence, but he feels a weight within his chest that he cannot dispel.
Shoving the keys into his pocket, he exits the vehicle and pulls open the back door. He grabs the carrier, and Dean climbs across the seat to hand him the diaper bag before jumping out to the ground.
John trudges into the room, dropping the diaper bag by the door and gently placing the carrier on the bed. He thinks about removing Sam from the car seat, but smiles painfully when he hears Mary's voice in his head reminding him to never disturb a sleeping baby.
"That's just asking for trouble, John," Mary used to say, and a tear rolls down his beard-stubble clad cheek.
"Time for our big man talk, Daddy," Dean reminds, grabbing John's hand and dragging him to the chair by the little table.
Unable to find the words he so desperately needs, John just nods, allowing his son to pull him along.
He falls heavily into the chair and pulls Dean up onto his lap.
Dean looks into his father's eyes and takes a breath. "Where's Mommy?" he asks innocently, his little face stern in its seriousness.
John glances towards Sammy and back to Dean, then back to the baby once again.
"Mommy always says, it's easier if you just take a breath and get it over with," Dean informs him, nodding his head, his eyes solemn. "Like when I broke the angel in my room…that one she bought for me 'fore I was borned."
"Born," John corrects automatically, only to smile when Dean repeats the word appropriately.
"Ok, Dean. You remember the fire last night, right?" He asks quietly, his eyes welling with unshed tears.
Dean nods, his head bobbing frantically. "The fire ate our house. Mommy always says we hafta be careful so things stay safe. Did we forget? 'Cuz I do that sometimes."
John smiles, "No, son, we didn't forget. I don't have all the answers right now, okay, buddy?" He waits for Dean's affirmative nod before continuing, a lump settling firmly in his throat, making his voice rougher than usual. "The fire hurt Mommy, and she…Well, son….she...," he chokes out, before finishing quietly, "so the angels took her to heaven, Dean. Do you understand?"
Dean looks at his father's watery eyes and shakes his head. In a small voice, he repeats, "Mommy's in heaven with the angels." He thinks about it for a minute and asks, "When will she be back?"
John closes his eyes, and tears fall from them as he opens them to look at his son's precious face. "She won't be back, son. I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so sorry," he cries and pulls his son tightly into his chest cradling the back of his head with a strong but gentle hand. Silent tears roll down Dean's face as he turns into his father's neck and begins to cry in earnest.
"I couldn't save her, Dean," John rasps, holding his son and praying, for the first time in years, that he's done this right.
"I'm so sorry, buddy," he reiterates, wishing he could take away his son's pain, praying that he won't let Mary down.
Dean cries for his mother until he falls into an exhausted sleep. Holding his boy closely, John shifts his position in the uncomfortable chair, his face sticky from tears.
After a few minutes consideration, he gets up and lays the dozing boy down on the bedspread, then moves to the bathroom to wash his face, hoping it will bring clarity.
He needs answers. Drying his hands on the bright white towel, he sighs and tosses it next to the sink.
He strides back into the room with his boys. They are so innocent, and he knows he must protect them with his last breath. Telling his son about the death of his mother breaks his heart.
"What happened to Mary last night?" John's confused voice breaks the stifling silence in the room. He lays a gentle hand on Sam's head to check for fever. The baby had terrified him tonight with all the vomit and blood. Blowing out a breath, he shoves his hands deep in the pockets of his worn jacket, contemplating his next move.
Something crinkles in his pocket and he pulls out a rectangular paper. John looks at the crumpled card he's pulled from his jacket, wondering where it came from until he remembers the woman at the hospital the night before.
He exhales in amazement that his life could turn so tragically on a dime. Was that really only hours ago? At this moment it felt like a lifetime.
Reading the fine print, he stares uncomprehendingly at the words printed there.
Missouri Moseley, Professional Psychic. Was this really his life? He is standing in a motel room, his boys sleeping, contemplating calling a woman who was claiming to be psychic?
John drops his head back and grabs the phone. He needs answers. He absolutely must have all the intel before formulating a plan of action.
Grabbing the phone, he dials slowly, shaking his head in disbelief as a smoky voice answers his call.
"John Winchester. I've been expecting your call."
The End