It had only been two months since Mary had died. To John, it seemed like she had died only yesterday. To John, it seemed as if he'd had to live with her death for a decade. He knew just how the boys were coping. Dean wouldn't speak, not a word after what he'd seen. It was traumatic to say the least and John had seen enough that he knew how horrible things could get.
Dean had seen the worst of anything John could imagine. He watched his mother burn on the ceiling, screaming in agony as blood dripped from the gaping wound on her stomach. He hadn't spoken a word since that night. John thought that it would pass after a while, could have sworn he'd heard low whispers coming from his son when he was sure no one was listening, but he couldn't be sure about anything. Dean needed help and John couldn't give it to him.
John had seen the thing that killed her. He'd seen the yellow-eyed bastard turn and smirk tauntingly at him through the bedroom window where Mary had gone up in flames along with the rest of the house. He knew what was out there. He was tracking it in his every waking moment, looking to find the smug sonofabitch so he could rip it apart piece by piece. He didn't sleep, didn't eat, couldn't think past his next move, the next hunt, the next town.
That was no life for a child.
Dean was only four, traumatized beyond anything John had seen. He'd been loud, mischievous, rampaging through the house with yells and stomping feet while he played. He'd been stubborn as his mother, only giving in when he'd been thoroughly convinced as to why he needed to do something. He'd been a hell of a four year old—smart and loving, if a bit rough and cunning. That wasn't Dean anymore though.
He was compliant now, pliable in the worst of ways. It didn't take even a single look from John before Dean was tending to things, helping pack, feeding Sammy, handing him another drink, never speaking, never protesting when something was too hard for him. John had found him perching precariously on a makeshift ladder trying to get the baby formula from the too-high cabinet to tend to a crying Sammy. John had yelled at the boy then. He'd been just one breath away from falling and hurting himself and John was more worried and scared than angry at him, but he couldn't keep from scolding his son—something, anything to keep him from doing anything so reckless again.
Dean still didn't say anything though. He just stood there, trembling at the anger in his father's voice, tears slowly streaking his face. He didn't set his foot down or explain the completely valid reason he was trying to reach the cabinet. He just shrunk further into himself and John knew it, but couldn't do anything but pull him roughly into a hug and apologize for the umpteenth time for the life they had. When John released him, Dean just picked up the formula from where it'd dropped on the floor and continued to make Sammy a bottle, not so much as a peep from the child.
John crept to the doorway of the small bedroom Dean and Sammy were in, taking care that the eldest wasn't aware of him. He listened closely, over the sounds of Sammy drinking his bottle, to the almost-but-not-quite silent whispers of SammySammySammy he'd heard, but could never really make out until now.
John couldn't keep doing this. He didn't know how to take care of two boys by himself. He was never a real parent. Mary had made up for it by being the best mother he could imagine, but he'd always been clueless. Even when Dean was an infant, he'd bumbled around clueless until Mary took over. If it wasn't for Dean now, John wasn't even sure he could keep Sammy alive, let alone happy and safe like the four year old did. Dean definitely didn't deserve this life and Sammy needed someone who could take real care of him.
John pulled into the parking lot of a passing pizza joint for one last meal with his boys. Dean wouldn't say anything, but the way his eyes went wide and he licked his lips before making a mess with his slice of real Chicago style pizza made the stop more than worth it. John had brought the camera inside with him and he snapped a polaroid of both his boys side by side, Dean with pizza sauce all over his face and Sammy asleep in his carrier.
They left an hour later, though John had barely touch his slice, and were back on the road for only fifteen minutes before John pulled up in front of a nice looking hospital. He unbuckled Dean and Sammy from their car seats, placing the still-sleeping infant in Dean's arms. He slung the diaper bag over Dean's shoulder and made sure it had anything he would need for the next few hours until things were sorted.
John sunk down on his knees and pulled them into another hug. He'd never really been one for displays of affection, but he was damned if he was leaving without something. When he pulled back, Dean looked at him curiously and John smirked. Dean didn't even really need to speak with such an expressive face. John could always tell just what he was thinking.
"Take your brother inside, Dean, and stay put until someone—a doctor or a nurse—comes to get you. Understand?"
Dean nodded once, still confused.
"I love you both," he said, standing up. "Take care of Sammy."
Dean nodded again, this time with a fierce look of determination on his face. He would always take care of Sammy, John knew. He never needed to be told.
John stood up. "Go, Dean," he said.
He watched the four year old walk through the front door of the hospital before he got in his car and left. John wasn't an idiot. He wouldn't leave his boys there on their own without someone watching out for them. He dawned his technical support coverall and matching badge, and officialed his way through to the security department. He watched the monitors closely, looking out for his sons, until he was sure they were in safe hands. Once his boys were taken from the hospital, John followed once more to be sure the social worker was legit.
If he was being honest with himself, he'd known he was having trouble letting go. They were safe now, though. They would be taken in by a family that would care for them better than John ever could. They would have lives and grow up away from the things that went bump in the night. They wouldn't even remember John or Mary burning on the ceiling. Dean would speak again, smile even. They'd be happy.
That thought was the only thing that kept John from busting into the building and taking his sons back.
Death counted eight. John's decisions would lead to the reaping of eight souls that night. The nurse who discovered the children would call her sister after work. The sister would answer her car phone, cutting someone off in the process. The man she cut off, already angry over his wife's transgressions, would kill eight people the next morning, including his wife's and his own.
If John hadn't decided to take his children to the hospital, if the nurse hadn't called, if the sister hadn't cut him off, the man would come home angry and be arrested later on that night for spousal abuse, no loss of life in the scenario.
As a matter of fact, that was how things were supposed to play out. Death had a copy of the unpublished manuscript. He needed one if he was to know where to send his reapers. John Winchester hadn't necessarily gone completely off script with his choice. It was more as if he had chosen to follow a different, much less appreciated, plotline. Death had the manuscript for that one as well, but he had been sure it wouldn't play out that way. It just went to prove that even Death wasn't infallible.
That racked up the death toll by eight people. It wasn't much—nothing, really—in the grand scheme of things, but this was just the first of many decisions that were to be made. There would be much more work cut out for him and his reapers in the coming years what with the impending apocalypse and all. He would consider the time before that as a sort of vacation.
Being a writer and all, I'm going to tell a story along with this one. My friend started watching Supernatural like a week ago and after the first episode, she goes, "That's messed up, man. Why didn't John just, like, I dunno, put them up for adoption or something?" That got me thinking. So what did I do? I wrote. This was supposed to be a one shot with the only scene being John dropping them off at the hospital and that's it, finito, finished. For some reason, though, I reeeeeally have trouble keeping things short and simple. Instead, what I did was add a scene with Death that ended up leaving a lot of unanswered questions and too many possibilities. Of course, that meant I continued the story with quite a few thousand more words. So, on to chapter two, Fearless Readers! Read On! Oh, and hit that comment button people :) Have any ideas? Hit me up. I'm open.
Oh and before I forget, *SPOILERS: up to season 3.