Okay, dudes, here we go again... as always - I owe nothing, it's all Kripke's (sorry to say that, but glad he lets us play with it, too!)
**********************************************
"Boy, fifteen, suspicion of ruptured appendix", one of the two nurses called at the doctor as they wheeled Dean into the surgergy. John clung to his hand, trying to pat away the frantic look in his boy's green eyes.
"Sir, is your son a diabetic? Does he have any chronical diseases? Allergies? Is he a hemophiliac?" John shook his head to all the questions, suddenly wondering what he would have done if one of his boys would have had anything of the mentioned. Would he have dropped that boy then somewhere, leaving him behind? He shuddered and the pain in his chest was abruptly overwhelming. He bend forward, desperate to not let Dean's hand go, and coughed.
"Sir, are you hurt? Sir? You have to let go now, please. You are not allowed to enter the surgery." One of the nurses took his hand from Dean's, earning a panicked moaning from the boy. "I'll be waiting for you, Dean, you hear me? Everything's gonna be allright, I promise!" He craned his neck when the nurse got between him and the cot of his son, hearing the other nurse's voice fading as they entered the sterile area: "So, your name's Dean? That's pretty…"
The nurse's probing hands on his chest brought him back. "Ouch!" He winced and shot an annoying glare at the nurse who was a whole head smaller than him. She returned it with professional, determined neutrality. "Sir, please sit down here." She dragged him onto a bed in a niche and pulled the curtain close. "Take your shirt off, please." John obeyed and felt exposed when the nurse once more put her cool, soft hands on his bare skin. "Hmm, three ribs broken, I'd say. I give you a ticket for the X-ray-department for further treatment."
John put his shirt back on and shook his head. "No, Ma'am, that's really not necessary. If you just could bandage me up, that'll suffice. Thank you," he stifled her retort before she could even open her mouth. "I want to be there when they bring Dean back. Please. And – there is also Sammy…"
The nurse cocked her head, pushed the man's shirt up again and started bandaging his chest tightly. "The little boy that came with you two? And, by the way, what happened?"
"We were just on a hunting trip when the hog attacked us. It hit me, but Sammy saved us." John wasn't willing to give more information.
"Okay, we're finished. Now go look after your boys. Ah, before I forget – shall we call their mom?"
John clenched his teeth against the old, returning pain. "Their mom's dead."
"Oh. I'm sorry." He had heard these words over and over again, and they still seemed so shallow, so empty to him. John suppressed the anger that rose in him and just nodded curtly, leaving the stunned nurse alone.
***
It appeared to John as if he had sat on the uncomfortable, barely padded wooden chair forever, sipping awfully thin and tasteless coffee, testing every brand the drinks dispenser offered. He sighed and looked at his watch. Early evening. They'd been sitting here for hours now, and still no sign of Dean. John had given up pacing the floor up and down about an hour ago, tired and exhausted from all the stress. Sammy had watched him attentive, his whole body tense and ready to dart forward once they wheeled his brother out. But finally John sat down, and laid an arm around Sammy's slender shoulders, pulling him protectively against his side. Not long after that he felt the boy's body go limp and he bedded the kid's head in his lap, covering him with his jacket. He laid his head back and closed his eyes. Just a second, it's only for a second…
The noise of doors pushed open and the faint squeak of rubber wheels on linoleum alarmed him, making him wonder how long he had slept. A quick glance at his watch told him that it had not been the quarter of an hour. "Dean?" He carefully put Sammy's head onto his chair and slipped out from underneath the sleeping boy. As he came around the edge he saw a nurse pushing the wheeled hospital bed into a room five or six doors down the floor. John darted back to Sammy, shook him hastily awake and pulled the in an instant fully awake boy with him.
Dean was fast asleep in the bed, his long lashes standing dark against the pallor of his calm face. His freckles seemed almost black against his skin, and he looked so young, so vulnerable… John swallowed hard.
"He will be sleeping for about another hour. If you want to stay, you're welcome to do so." The doctor turned to John and fixed him with a stern look over the rim of her glasses. "It was a ruptured appendix. A few minutes later and the boy would be dead now. Why didn't you bring him in when he showed the first signs?"
John raised an eyebrow. "He didn't say a word. He's a tough kid, probably he thought it would go away on it's own." He knew his words sounded lame, but he didn't really care. All he wanted was that woman out of the room and being able to conccentrate on his sick son.
"And there is also another thing I want to talk with you about." She paused, looking meaningful at John and then at Sam. He firmly set his jaw and returned the glare. "There is nothing you can't say in front of my son. Go ahead." He knew this look, especially from women who pretended to care, who felt responsible for everyone. He swallowed the rage that started to boil in his chest.
"All right. This is your choice." She stopped again, obviously searching the right words. "When we examined Dean's body for further, probably hidden, injuries, we noticed a lot of old and some new scars. Some were even stitched, but I have serious doubts that was the work of a doctor. After that we radiographed him, too, and discovered many old fractures. Each and every rib. Shinbones. Arms. One wrist even two or rather three times. And now I'm really looking forward for your explanation." She leaned back against Dean's bed, positioning herself between him and his – in her eyes – clearly violent father. She shot a glance at the perhaps eleven or twelve year old boy that pressed against his father's side, wondering how the little guy's body looked like. She couldn't imagine his father had spared him, not after what this pig had done to his eldest.
John sighed, running a hand down his face to soothe himself. "He was in the car that burned his mother to death about ten years ago when she had the accident." He so hated to lie, so hated to deny his beautiful Mary the truth, so hated to banalize her death. But he had learned over the last years that people tended to shut up when confronted with a shocking answer. Telling the truth, the real truth to ordinary people only would leave him locked up in an asylum and the boys under child protective services.. So a car accident, with lots of splintering glass and a rollover worked just fine with the boys' various injuries they had received when he was not fast or strong enough to protect them.
It worked now, too. John could see her tough and smart façade crumble. Somehow that satisfied him in a pervert way, feeling he had payed her back what she had done to him by accusing him. "Oh," she said sheepishly, feeling like a complete idiot. "I didn't know, I-"
John waved a hand. "S'okay."
"But how can you explain the newer injuries?"
Well, that one was a tough lady, John had to admit. "He likes to play stuntman. Boys, you know? Can we be alone now, please?" She nodded hastily and retreated, almost tripping over her own feet. John closed the door behind her and leaned against the cool steel. He smiled encouragingly to Sammy. The boy hesitated no longer and carefully climbed onto the bed, snuggling close to his brother's still form, taking care not to jostle against the catheter taped on his brother's right hand.
He was so proud of his boys, wishing Mary was here, seeing how they slept in unison, the smaller, darker haired head pressed against the arch of the older, blond haired's neck. Oh, Mary… His legs threatened to give way under John, and he crashed onto the chair next to the bed. I would give my right hand to protect them from getting hurt over and over again. And yet… I don't want to leave them with some strangers, who know nothing about you, Mary, who can't make them proud of being your sons. He sighed, took Dean's left hand and cradled it in his. He so wished he could leave the boy in hospital long enough for the doctors to dismiss him, but he knew that even when the doctor had seemed satisfied with his answer, she would do some research. And that meant he had to take Dean out only a short time after he woke up. Officially, or, what he rather assumed, inofficially.
A smile crept up his throat, and John couldn't stifle it. Last time Dean had been in hospital was about a year ago, after he had had that spectacular accident with a stolen motorbike. The boy had wanted to prove his dad that there was no vehicle he couldn't master. And, well, there had been this guy in school – several years older than Dean, owning that shiny, gleaming motorbike. He had provoked Dean the day he had set a foot into that school, teasing him about his worn clothes, his geek little brother. Dean didn't really care about being insulted, but when that bully came to his brother, something went off in the teenager's brain. He waited until it was dark, as he later told John, and grabbed the motorbike. The first few curves it was no problem, but Dean lost control when he cut the last curve too hard. The bike slid away underneath him, careening another fifty yards over the icy street, dragging Dean with it when his leg was caught under the heavy machine.
John had rushed to the hospital then, blaming himself for pricking the boy to pull such a daredevil action. The result was a broken leg, sprained wrists, an eye swollen shut and a nasty concussion that left him blurry and confused. But he had been lucky, as the doctors said, having such a bullethead. John knew they had to leave town as soon as possible, since the police was already alarmed, and literally busted Dean out of hospital the same night. He couldn't risk the police ask questions about their whereabouts.
He rubbed his face, returning to the here and now. He felt tired, but didn't dare to close his eyes, in case that Dean didn't wake up in time or that he got worse. He weighed the pro and contra of getting up and grabbing another cup of coffee and decided to get one.