The first time Dean Winchester was drunk, he wasn't at a bar hustling pool or at Bobby's on a summer night, sipping beer and fixing cars while his dad tried to teach him Latin pronunciation even as his head swam. He wasn't experimenting; he wasn't showing off, he wasn't trying to fit in. He wasn't even at a party trying to woo one of the chicks at his new high school. No, the first time Dean was drunk he was lying on his back on Bobby's couch, trembling and bleeding from a bullet wound in the gut while trying to drown away the pain as they dug the bullet out of him.
One thing was for sure: Sam Winchester was never hunting again.
***SPN***
"Dad, do we have to leave again?" asked Sam from the backseat of the Impala.
It was the end of June and school had let out hardly a week ago. The boys were hitting the road again to go on yet another hunt for yet another black dog in South Dakota. Sam was sick of moving. He just wanted to stay in one place and really, was that too much to ask? The Winchesters had moved nineteen times in the last twelve years. Normal people didn't move that much. Normal people settled down. Normal people didn't hunt things-that-went-bump-in-the-night.
"For the last time, yes, Sam. Bobby needs our help," his Dad said tiredly, rubbing his hand across his brow.
"But I made friends! Marjorie invited me to her pool party this weekend, and Steve and Dillon wanted to–"
"Sam."
Sam huffed. "Fine."
Dean watched the exchange from the passenger seat. He looked guiltily at his brother while Sam glared. Dean knew how much Sam wanted to stay in Kentucky, but he said nothing when Dad told them to pack their things and hit the road. Sam knew Dean didn't want to rock the boat, but Sam was tired of his brother following every order their father gave them.
"Sammy, it's really not that bad," said Dean quietly. "We'll be staying with Bobby. You used to love staying with Bobby."
"That's because it's been the only stable home we've lived in for the past twelve years!"
The car lurched as John pulled off to the side of the road and slammed on the brakes. "Samuel! I know your angry, but try to pull it together! We're moving and that's final, so no more bitching and complaining about it!"
Sam sulked and muttered obscenities under his breath.
John raised his eyebrows dangerously. "What did you say?"
"Nothing."
"I thought so. Now buck up, son, because you're going on the hunt with us."
Dean's eyes widened. "What do you mean; he's coming on the hunt with us?"
"Bobby twisted his ankle trying to get this sucker a few days ago and he can't move around on it all that well. We need a third man."
Sam's heart was beating in his chest as he listened to his father and brother. "But he's only twelve, for Christ's sake!" Dean cried.
"You were ten, Dean. It's time Sam got to prove what he's worth."
Dean was sullen but said nothing. Sam could tell that Dean didn't like the thought of his little brother hunting, but there was nothing either one of them could do. Sam took a breath to calm his heartbeat.
Tomorrow night, he would be a hunter.
***SPN***
Singer's Salvage Yard was dirty, dusty, and deliberately on the outskirts of Sioux Falls. Bobby had peace and quiet there, and apart from Pastor Jim's house, it was Sam's favorite place in the entire world. Or it had been his favorite place in the entire world. He wasn't quite sure any more.
To Sam, Bobby's house represented security; it was the place where John dropped the boys off when he knew he was going to be gone long, or when he knew all three of them needed a break. But now as John pulled the Impala up in front of the house, Bobby's place seemed scary. It meant that in less than a day, he'd be hunting. And Sam didn't want that.
As the car pulled to a stop, the front door creaked open and Bobby Singer was revealed, leaning heavily against the door frame too keep the weight off his injured ankle. He wore his trademark cap and flannel, just as he had for the past eleven years that Sam had known him. He was smiling warmly at the Winchesters as they got out of the car.
"How you boys doin'?"
"Great, Bobby, just great," said John. He opened the trunk and pulled out his duffle bag, motioning for Sam and Dean to do the same. "How's the ankle?"
Bobby shrugged. "It ain't healing as fast as I'd like it to."
"That's because you're old," said Dean, grinning.
"You wanna sleep outside, funny guy? Rumsfeld loves company."
"Been there, done that. Too many fleas if you ask me."
Bobby laughed. "Idjit."
Sam was quiet as they made their way inside the old house, Bobby limping behind him. As they chattered away, Sam fell silent. Sam had had butterflies in his stomach all day as the thought of the oncoming hunt loomed in his mind. He wasn't ready. He was pretty sure he wasn't ready because if he was ready, his heart wouldn't be racing every time he saw the leaves on a bush rustling (which was, admitting, a lot) or thought of the guns in the secret compartment of their trunk. He wasn't ready, and he was scared. He was gonna mess up, he just knew it.
And if he messed up, he knew his dad would be pissed. Sam was well past the age when he should have begun hunting, in John's opinion. Dean was a natural, and Sam . . . well, Sam wasn't. His fingers still fumbled when he reloaded his gun, for goodness's sake!
"You all right, Sam?" asked Bobby quietly while Dean and his father went to put their things into their rooms.
"Yeah, I'm fine," lied Sam. He didn't want Bobby to know he was nervous.
Bobby stared at him for a long moment, searching his face for any untruths. He seemed to hesitate for a moment before saying, "You know, on my first hunt I almost died by falling off a cliff?"
Sam was startled. "You . . . uh . . . you almost died?"
Bobby nodded. "I was hunting this tree spirit, you know, not too hard to kill, so I was hunting alone. But I was chasing it and I wasn't watching where I was going. It had been raining and I slipped on some mossy rock and I just barely managed to find a grip and hold on to the face of the cliff. Damn spirit got away until I found it the next day."
"Is this supposed to make me feel better?"
"My point is, Sam," said Bobby, looking him straight in the eye, "that you're gonna make mistakes, especially on your first hunt. It comes with the job. But where I was alone, you've got your daddy and your brother out there looking out there for you. They ain't gonna let nothing bad happen to you, you hear me? Nothing."
Sam swallowed tightly. He knew his dad would protect him, and Dean was so overprotective it was suffocating.
"Yeah. I'll be fine."
"Rumsfeld, stop! Down!" came Dean's voice from the bottom of the stairs. Sam and Bobby looked as Dean stumbled when Rumsfeld jumped on him and put his paws on Dean's shoulders. Dean laughed and asked, "Geez, Bobby, where'd he learn to dance? You?"
"Your father," Bobby cracked.
Dean grinned and pushed the dog off of him. "Dad makes an ogre look graceful."
"I heard that, boy," called their father from upstairs. They heard heavy footsteps on the stairs and then John appeared. He turned to Bobby and said, "You ready to let us know what we're up against?"
Bobby sighed and motioned them into the kitchen. "Can't even relax for five minutes, can you? Go get that map over there and bring it here," he said to Dean, pointing at a huge map lying on his sofa.
Dean brought the map in and laid it out on the table. Bobby studied the map for a minute before pointing to spots along the Big Sioux River. "This is where there've been attacks. The park rangers all say that it's some animal, a wolf or somethin', but we know better. All the signs of a Black Dog - did the research myself."
"Okay, so what happened the first time?"
"Well, I managed to track it up the river and got a shot off on it," said Bobby, scratching his head, "I think I got it in the shoulder or something, nothing too serious though. Then the son of a bitch was about to cross the river when I twisted my ankle on some rock. It's across the river now, for sure."
"But it's wounded," said Dean, "which means it's slower. Piece of cake."
"Don't you go in thinking this is gonna be easy, Dean. It's still a Black Dog, which means it's as mean and nasty as they come," said John, narrowing his eyes at his oldest.
Sam's stomach dropped as Bobby said, "Yeah, and it's pissed off, too, so it's gonna be out for blood."
"More than usual, you mean." Dean smirked and crossed his arms. Sam didn't understand how he could be so calm and cocky about the hunt. He was sixteen, after all. He should be chasing girls and driving old beat up cars that he could barely afford, not running off to kill a supernatural, demonic dog! Yet there he was, as relaxed as a person who just went to a spa would be.
John didn't care for the attitude either, it appeared. "Shut up, Dean, and take this seriously otherwise I'm gonna leave you here for this one. You can play nursemaid for Bobby while Sam and I are killing that thing."
Dean mumbled something unintelligible but straightened up without saying a word. Sam's stomach grumbled loudly, and everyone turned to him.
"Who wants burgers?" asked Bobby.
"Only if you didn't kill the cow."
"Shut up, Dean."
***SPN***
The crunching of leaves beneath his feet and the sound of his and breathing were the only noises that Sam heard as they moved through the forest along the river. Sam was keenly aware of how loud he was in contrast to his brother; where he stepped on every twig and branch that happened across his path, Dean was silent as if he were walking on carpet, not leaves. He saw Dean flinch every time Sam stumbled or made a loud noise. But Dean was Dean, so he didn't reprimand his little brother. He just encouraged him and gave him tips to help him along. The encouragement did nothing to lighten his mood.
"We've been at this for hours, Dean, and still no sign of it."
"I know Sammy, but we've gotta keep looking until Dad calls us in."
"But it's getting dark out here! We're not supposed to hunt in the dark – it's dangerous!"
Dean stopped and looked at his feet, then at the darkening sky. The red sun was dipping below the mountains, and the sky was turning noticeably darker. In a little over a half hour, they wouldn't be able to see at all.
"All right," said Dean. "We'll start walking back to the impala. I'll radio to Dad."
Sam was quiet on the way back. Their father had been about to call it off, so John hadn't been angry that the boys had called it quits for the day. Sam listened to the sound of the river and was comforted by its constant presence. It drowned out the worrisome thoughts in his head. He was actually enjoying himself now that the tracking was done. Maybe hunting wasn't so bad. Maybe-
"Sam, stop," Dean whispered harshly and thrust out his arm to stop his brother.
Sam halted abruptly to avoid running into Dean. "What?"
"Do you hear that?"
Sam listened for a moment. He didn't hear footsteps or leaves rustling. What was Dean talking about? "Hear what?"
"Exactly. I don't hear anything. I don't see anything, either. There should be squirrels and shit running around here, but there's nothing."
"You think we're close?"
"Yeah, I think we're real close. Be real quiet and keep your gun ready."
Sam swallowed and tightened his grip on his rifle. Dean led the way as they entered the clearing where the car was. Sam was ecstatic – maybe Dean had been wrong! – but then he heard a growl, long and slow.
The Black Dog.
The brothers turned around as they heard the animal bound towards them. It was only a shadow in the rapidly growing darkness, but Sam could see it well enough. Sam's arms were weak and useless with fear, but Dean raised his gun and fired a shot at the moving target.
The bullet grazed its ear, and it howled in pain and annoyance. The Black Dog growled and bounded towards Dean, who jumped deftly out of the way. The dog was still going after him though, and, seeing his brother in trouble, Sam raised his gun.
The gun was shaking in his hands as he pulled the trigger. The shot went wide, but it drew the dog's attention to him. Suddenly the huge mass of muscle and fur that was the demon dog was running towards him. Sam stumbled back in shock. He landed on his back and scrambled to raise his gun. He pushed himself up to a sitting position as the dog leapt towards him, its jaws opened wide. Sam didn't hesitate when he pulled the trigger for the second time.
The Black Dog fell ungracefully from the air as the bullet caught it in the chest, right in the heart. Sam's mind was racing. His first hunt. His first kill. As his mind processed what was happening, he heard his father's footsteps crashing over the leaves and into the clearing.
Sam was exited. His father would be so proud of him – Dean would be so proud of him! He was finally a hunter. He finally belonged.
"Dad," Sam called happily, "I did it! I killed it! Dad?"
John wasn't paying attention to him. He looked right passed him and called, "Dean!"
Sam's heart dropped south as he pushed himself off the ground and looked to where John was running. There was a dark form lying on the ground and after a moment, Sam realized it was his brother.
But the Black Dog hadn't hurt him. It hadn't even touched him. So why was Dean not getting up? Why was he on the ground? Surreally, Sam walked towards his father and brother and tried to figure out what was going on.
Dean moaned as their father turned him over onto his back. Sam knelt next to his brother and was shocked to find that Dean's stomach was coated with blood. How had that happened? Then John removed Dean's trembling fingers from his abdomen and Sam saw the hole, the glistening dark blood in the moonlight.
It had been that first shot that Sam had taken, the one that went wide. It had hit him, and now Dean was lying in a pool of his own blood, bleeding from a rifle wound caused by his own brother.
"Shit," said John, pressing on the wound. Dean cried out and bucked against him. Sam held his shoulders to keep him still. "Shit! Just shit!"
Dean's breath came out in sharp pants. He weakly tried to push John's fingers away, but John just pressed tighter on the wound. Dean moaned again and relaxed against the cold ground. Sam saw tears reflecting in the moonlight in the slits of Dean's eyes, but his brother wouldn't let them fall. Couldn't let them fall. Not while Sammy was around.
"Dad . . ." whispered Dean, pleading with his father to ease up the pressure.
"What the hell happened, Sam?" asked John, ignoring his oldest. "How the hell did he get shot?"
"Dad . . ."
"Dad, I'm sorry! The shot . . . the shot went wide, and I didn't know, I swear!"
"Jesus, Sam!"
"I didn't mean to! I was just trying to kill it! I had a clear shot and everything!"
John glared at him, his eyes dark. "How was that a clear shot? You shot Dean, for Christ's sake!"
"Dad . . . it hurts."
John's expression and tone softened at Dean's piteously soft words. "I know bud, but I've gotta stop the bleeding. Sam, go open the door. We're leaving."
Sam sprinted to open the door without hesitation. John scooped Dean up into his arms, wincing at the groan the movement inflicted, and got Dean settled into the back seat of the impala. Sam's hands replaced his own on Dean's stomach, and he hopped into the front seat. Putting the car into drive and flooring it, he said, "Don't you let up, Sam. Don't let up on that pressure."
Sam nodded and kept a steady pressure on the wound. Warm, sticky blood coated his fingers and its scent was in the air, filling his nostrils and mouth with the tangy smell of copper. Sam fought back a wave of nausea as he took in the sight of his brother's stomach. It was all too real, all too personal for Sam. He couldn't look at the blood, so he focused on his brother's face.
Dean's eyes were closed and his face was pale. Too pale. Sam could count his freckles in the moonlight, and his lips were thin and light. His eyes were closed. His brow was furrowed in pain. His breathing was shallow and rapid. His eyes were closed.
His eyes were closed . . .
"Dean," said Sam, patting him on the cheek. "Dean! You need to wake up!"
Dean turned his head but kept his eyes tightly shut. Sam's heart was racing. What if he wouldn't wake up ever? "Come on, Dean. Open your eyes! Please."
Dean cracked his eyes open and blinked owlishly at him. "Sam?"
Sam smiled, relieved. "Hey, dude, you need to talk to me."
"'Bout what?"
"Anything. How about that girl – what's her name? – Hannah? You remember Hannah from Virginia right?"
Dean's lips twisted up in a shadow of his grin. "First girl I . . . I ever kissed."
"'Course she was. You were twelve, right? Behind the church?"
Dean shook his head slightly. "It was . . . an ice cream parlor. I've. . ." he swallowed painfully. "I've got some . . . class, Sammy."
"Do you miss her?"
"We still keep . . . in touch."
Sam was surprised; he hadn't thought his brother had thought about Hannah since they moved out of Virginia four years ago, let alone kept in touch with the girl. But that was the amazing thing about Dean: for a guy who had learned to let so many things go in his life – schools, friends, and homes – he kept the important people in his life close to him and never let them go.
"That's great, Dean." Sam's throat was so constricted that he couldn't think of anything else to say.
Dean murmured in response. His eyes were drifting closed, and with every bump the impala hit, Dean would jerk his eyes open in response to the pain. Sam looked up to see how much father they had to drive until they reached the hospital, but he quickly realized they were on the wrong road. They weren't even headed in the right direction.
"Dad, you're heading the wrong way! The hospital's east, not west."
"I know, Sam," said John, his eyes fixed on the road. He veered to the left and suddenly Sam knew where they were going.
"You can't bring him to Bobby's!" exclaimed Sam, horrified. "He was shot! He needs a hospital."
"Shut up, Sam," John growled.
They pulled into Bobby's a minute later and Sam was seething. Bobby's lights were still on, which meant he was awake. Thank God.
John opened his door and yelled, "Bobby!"
He went over to the back seat and gently lifted Dean and cradled him into his arms. The bleeding had slowed considerably in the ride over, but Dean was barely conscious. Sam got out of the car and followed John over to the porch.
"Bobby, damn it, get out here!"
"I'm comin', I'm comin'! Jesus, John, you sure know how to -" Bobby stopped when he saw John carrying a bloody Dean up the porch steps. "What the hell happened?"
"He got shot," John bit out.
Bobby held the door and he carried Dean into the house and laid him on the sofa. Dean was shifting restlessly on the couch, murmuring unintelligible things to himself. He was in a world of pain, and it was all Sam's fault.
"He got shot and you brought him here?"
"Hospitals report gunshot wounds!"
"So tell them it was a hunting accident, for Christ's sake!" yelled Bobby. He paused and Sam could see the gears turning in his mind. It all came together as he said, "But you don't have insurance, do you?" When John looked away guiltily, he said, "Jesus, John."
"I know."
Bobby turned away from his friend, disappointed, and barked, "Sam, go boil some water and bring me a rag. John, go get the med kit."
Sam ran to the kitchen and pulled out a pot and filled it with water. He turned the stove onto its highest heat setting and then stared into the living room through the open door. Bobby was talking quietly to Dean, who was nodding faintly in response. Sam heard his father fumbling around in the bathroom and then John came bustling down the stairs with the med kit in his hands.
Sam waited in the doorway and saw Bobby reaching into the kit to pull out scissors. He began to cut away Dean's ruined shirt. He carefully peeled the shirt away from Dean's skin. Dean said something that Sam couldn't hear, and John laughed.
"I'll buy you a new one, bud."
Bobby leaned forward to examine the wound. Dean flinched, but John sat down and ran his hands through his hair like he used to do for Sam when he had a fever. Dean turned his head into the touch, taking comfort from his father's warmth.
Bobby sat up and rubbed his hands on his jeans, leaving a wide smear of blood on them. "It's deep, John, but not too deep."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It means," said Bobby forcefully, "that you should've taken him to a hospital; any sane person would've done that. But I can fix him. I don't think the bullet hit any organs."
"You don't think?" questioned John incredulously.
"I ain't a doctor!"
John covered his face with his hands. "What did I do?"
Bobby ignored him and called, "Sam! That water ready yet?"
Sam turned around and went to the stove. The water was hissing under the lid. Sam lifted it off and a puff of steam came swirling towards his face.
"It's ready!"
"Bring it in here, and that rag, too!"
Sam grabbed the rag and pot and brought them into the living room. He set them down on the table, and Bobby wet the rag and began to clean the blood away from Dean's abdomen. If Dean noticed the scalding water, he didn't show it. His eyes were shut tight and he looked even paler than he had in the car.
When the area around the wound was clear, Sam could see the gore clearly for the first time. The hole was smaller than he had expected it to be, but it was dark and deep. Sam couldn't see the bullet, but apparently Bobby knew where it was. Apparently.
"John, get me the pain meds out of the kit."
John rummaged through the kit, frowning. He started to take things out – bandages, swabs – but he couldn't find what he was looking for. "They're not here."
"What do you mean they're not there?"
John glared at him. "You don't have pain meds! You have about seven different antibiotics, but no pain medicine."
Bobby ran a hand over his face in exasperation. "Then go get the whiskey."
"I'm not getting my son drunk, Bobby."
"Do you want him to go through this totally aware?"
John didn't answer; he went and brought in the Johnnie Walker Black. Dean looked blearily up and him and tried to smile. "The good stuff."
"And how would you know that?"
Dean shrugged listlessly and glanced wearily at the bottle. John opened it up and held it to his son's lips. "Drink up, Ace."
Dean took a small sip and coughed. John quickly pulled the bottle away as Dean gagged. "I know it burns, Dean, but you've gotta drink it. I – I don't want you to have to feel this."
Dean took another sip, then another. Bobby went into the kitchen and turned on the stove to sterilize the knife, needle, and tweezers. He came back quickly, his face drawn and another rag in his hands. After a while, John pulled the bottle away and said, "You're good, Dean."
Dean grimaced and settled deeper into the sofa cushions. Bobby leaned over Dean with the rag in his hand. "Bite on this," he said apologetically.
Dean was so out of it that he didn't seem to know why he was biting on a rag. He bit down and Bobby picked up the knife. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. And then he touched the knife to Dean's skin and began to make an incision.
Dean's muffled screams raised the hairs on the back of Sam's neck, sending shivers down his spine. When Dean tried to push Bobby's hands away, John grabbed his hands and held them tightly in his own. John leaned close to his son's ear and began whispering words of comfort so softly that Sam couldn't even hear him. Tears were streaming down both of their faces and after a moment, Sam realized that he was crying, too.
Bobby carefully inspected the wound and then made the incision longer. Dean didn't even have the energy to scream; instead, he just moaned griped his dad's hands tighter, tighter, tighter until the tendons in his wrists were protruding. John didn't even flinch, just whispered assurances to Dean in his moment of need.
Never before had Sam seen his brother so open, so weak . . . so vulnerable. The only time Sam had seen Dean cry was when he broke his arm when he was eight, and that was more out of shock than anything else. The tears streaming down Dean's face were an all too-real reminder that Dean was breakable, that he could be hurt. And Sam didn't like that one bit.
Dean was supposed to be the rock; ironic because he adapted to new environments easier than even their father, but he was the rock of the family, the anchor that held them together. Rocks didn't break. Rocks didn't cry or scream. Sam was scared for his brother. He just wanted him to be okay.
Bobby inspected the wound again, but didn't find the bullet so he widened the cut. Dean cried out again and then fell limp against the couch cushions. John frantically pressed two fingers to his son's neck to check his pulse. After a tense moment, John let out a breath. "He's just unconscious."
"Thank God," muttered Bobby, "I thought he'd never pass out."
John placed Dean's hands by his side and ran a hand through his son's hair again. He turned to glare at Bobby. "So much for that whiskey."
"Oh, trust me, that whiskey worked like it was supposed to. We'd know it if it hadn't," said Bobby darkly.
Sam swallowed as Bobby made another cut and then extracted the knife. "Bingo. Sucker moved further than I thought it had."
Bobby replaced the knife with tweezers and probed the wound with them until he found the bullet again. After a minute, he came up with a blood-coated bullet. Sam looked away; the thought that it had come from his own gun repulsed him so much that he became nauseas again.
"Sam, can you thread that needle for me?"
With shaking hands, Sam did as he was told. Bobby wiped away the fresh blood with the now cool water. He poured some whiskey into the wound and then held his hand out for the needle. He began to sew precise, neat stitches along Dean's stomach. After twenty-seven, he cut the thread with his teeth and leaned back to admire his handiwork.
The end result was not pretty: a long, jagged line of stitches ran across Dean's abdomen to wrap around and creep towards his back. The skin around the wound was raw and red while the rest was a pale white. Dean's brow was furrowed in pain, but at least he was sleeping, his breathing coming in long, slow breaths.
Bobby cocked his head and then grunted. "It'll do. Boy coulda used a unit or two, but he'll live. He'll be sore as hell, but he'll live."
"Thanks, Bobby," whispered John. Sam looked at his father and noticed the red-rimmed eyes and Sam felt sorry for him. He was a mess.
"Don't thank me. I'm not thanking you one bit," Bobby growled. "Don't you ever bring that boy here again looking like that, you hear? Or I swear I'll kill you, John, don't for a second think I won't." At John's remorseful face, he reached down and rifled through the bottles of antibiotics. Settling on one, he tossed it to John and said, "Give these to him. If he gets an infection, we'll have to take him to a hospital and I won't stop them when they call child services on you."
John nodded and said again, "Thanks, Bobby. I'm sorry."
Bobby glared at him and picked up the bottle of whiskey. "I need a drink."
Bobby left the room drinking straight from the bottle. Sam looked up at his father and began to cry again.
"Dad, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to shoot him!"
"Sam, its–"
"I swear I didn't mean to! I was just trying to kill it . . . just trying to make you proud."
"Sam, its okay," said John, leaning over to hug his youngest. "You made a mistake; it happens. I get that, okay? We're just gonna have to practice your aim a little harder."
The John was lost on Sam, who just glared at him. John shifted. He looked at Dean's pale face and seemed to contemplate his next move. After a moment he let out a breath.
"Let's get your brother upstairs. We all need a break," he said, scooping Dean carefully into his arms for the third time that night. "I'll watch him."
***SPN***
Sam fell into a restless slumber at around three in the morning. He tossed and turned all night. Nightmares plagued his dreams: Dean getting shot, Dean bleeding, Dean dying. So much could have happened that night, so much could have gone wrong. Dean could have died, and it all would have been Sam's fault.
All his fault.
Sam awoke instantly to Dean's first moan. He went to help him, but he realized their father was in the room with them and was already there to help. Sam didn't want to talk to him, so he stayed silent.
"Dean?"
Sam saw Dean slowly open his eyes and blink a couple of times. "Dad?"
"Hey, Ace, how are you feeling?"
Dean paused, contemplating. "Hurts. A lot," he finally whispered, ashamed. To Sam, he sounded even younger than himself.
"It's okay, Dean, we're gonna get you something for that today." John sounded so upset that Sam even felt bad for him.
"Thanks," whispered Dean. He shifted and then winced. His hands flew to his stomach and he said, "Jesus."
John sifted his hands through Dean's hair. Sam had never seen such dark shadows under his father's eyes; he probably hadn't slept all night. "I know it hurts, but you can't touch it, Dean. You might break the stitches. Just breathe, and it'll get better."
Dean did as he was told and after a minute, he relaxed against the pillows. "Sorry."
"There's nothing for you to be sorry for. I'm sorry I put you through this," said John.
"'S okay," murmured Dean. "You did what you had to do."
There it was: the raw acceptance. Never had Sam seen someone take as much crap as his brother did and still love the person doling it out. John wasn't a good father; he left them home alone too much with too little money for too long. He degraded his sons constantly and expected perfection. He was a hard-ass. He was an ass-hole. But he was their father, and Dean loved him unconditionally.
It was crazy.
"No, I should have taken you to a hospital. You could've died, Dean, and that would've been on me."
"But I didn't."
John paused. "No, you didn't."
They sat in silence for a long moment, and Sam knew both of them were too exhausted to argue with each other. Then Dean cracked, "You know, I have a killer hangover."
Sam was repulsed as John smiled. "The side-effect of good ol' Jonnie."
Dean gave a half-hearted grin and then asked, "How's Sam doing?"
"He's beating himself over this. He could barely go to bed – I heard him tossing and turning all night."
"It's not his fault," said Dean, "I should've hit it the first time . . . I should've got out of the way in time."
"It's not your fault either, Ace. It was an accident. Shit happens."
"But now he's gonna carry that with him for the rest of his life."
"He'll be all right, don't worry," said John. "He killed the son of a bitch, though. Shot it right through the heart."
Dean grinned. He was struggling to keep his eyes open now. "Knew he could do it."
"No you didn't; you wanted to have him wait until he was thirty until he started hunting."
"Yeah, well, minds change."
John smiled, too. "Yes, they do. Get some rest, Dean. You need it."
Dean nodded and was asleep within moments. John was asleep not long after that, leaving Sam the only waking occupant of the room.
Sam was seething. His father was right; it was John's fault. Sam may have pulled the trigger, but it was John who had taught him how, John who took them hunting for evil creatures, John who hadn't taken his dying son to a hospital to get treatment. It was John's fault, and Sam hated him for it.
He wasn't going to do it anymore. Sam was done with hunting. There had been a time when he was little that he had thought his father and brother were the coolest people in the world, hunting crime one demon at a time. But that was over. Now Sam saw how messed up they were: John was a sociopath hell-bent on revenge, and Dean was so screwed up that he shouldered fault even when it clearly wasn't his. Their whole family was screwed up. Normal people take injured people to hospitals.
Normal people have homes.
It was all Sam wanted: stability. Nothing about his life was stable, and it would never be unless their father gave up on his crazy scheme to catch the demon that had killed their mother. But that would never happen. It would continue forever. So that morning, in the dark room with his seriously injured brother laying in the next bed, Sam decided that he was going to leave the first chance he got.
And he wouldn't look back.
Fin.
Loved Sammy's point of view in this! Please review!