Chapter 4: John's Wake-Up Call

Time had ceased to exist for Dean Winchester. As his battered and bruised body lay on the cold surgical table with tubes coming out from every possible place, the surgeon and his medical staff worked quickly and expertly on his dying body.

Though Dean continued to defy all odds with every beat of his weakened heart, his vital signs told the story of just how tenuous his hold on this life was. The surgeon, Dr. Bob Graham, worked quickly to repair the damage that had been inflicted to Dean's heart and lungs.

After nearly six long hours of tedious, painstaking damage control, Dr. Graham was finally closing the open chest wound he'd been working through. The surgeon couldn't believe this young man was still alive - it was nothing short of a miracle. Despite knowing that his patient had been involved in a car accident, this kind of damage seemed suspiciously like something had tried to rip the young man's heart from his body - but that was just impossible.

Sure the punctured lung was from the broken ribs - but the arterial tears and damage to his aorta, not to mention the big gaping wound, seemed like something a little more. Still baffled, Dr. Graham placed the last suture and began preparing himself for the inevitable "talk" with the family.

After making sure he knew the names of the young man he had just operated on and his family members, Dr. Graham finally stood outside the correct hospital room. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Dr. Graham pushed open the door to the room where Dean's brother and father waited for news of his condition.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Graham," he introduced himself, noting their ragged and weary appearance.

"Doctor, how's Dean," the younger man asked, anxious concern mirrored in his face as well as his voice.

"Okay, well, there is no easy way to tell you this, but as I'm sure you already know, Dean has suffered some very severe injuries to the chest area. When he came into the emergency room, his body was already in severe hypovolemic shock due to massive blood loss. Also, his ultrasound indicated some arterial and aortic tearing which required surgical repair."

"He has a chest tube in place to drain away the extra air and blood from around his lungs. The chest tube will also help re inflate his collapsed lung that was punctured by some broken ribs. Due to Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome, he has been placed on mechanical ventilation until his lungs have a chance to heal."

The doctor looked first from one stunned face to the other before continuing, "Also, we have put him on antibiotics for infection prevention and to help ward off pneumonia, which is common with this type of injury. His body is still in shock, which is to be expected, so we have him on intravenous fluids and blood products to help build his blood volume back up."

"We are keeping him in a medically induced coma to keep him from fighting the ventilator, so don't expect any sign of response when you go in to see him. He does have a slight concussion, but at this point I feel it is the least of his problems. Amazingly, his ribs appear to be the only bones broken despite some severe bruising on his left shoulder and left hip area. Really, the next 24 hours will be critical in whether or not he pulls through this."

Both men sat frozen in dumbstruck shock and fear, until finally Sam managed to blink -sending a single tear sliding down the side of his face.

Sympathy pangs motivated Dr. Graham to continue, "I know that this sounds very overwhelming and I won't lie to you, Dean is in very critical condition, but he seems to be a very strong, determined young man and he's fighting very hard. I have never seen anyone take this much abuse and survive past the emergency room, much less surgery. I find this encouraging considering that we now have corrective measures in place."

"We have him in the ICU ward and you may visit him if you like. Normally, we wouldn't allow more than one of you in at a time - but considering his severe condition and the fact that there are only the two of you, I'm going to allow you both to visit him as soon as you feel up to it. Do you have any questions at this point?"

Dean's father cleared his emotion clogged voice and said, "Um, not at this time, Doc. I think right now we just need to see him."

"Sure thing, Mr. Anderson, I'll send someone in right away," Dr. Graham assured as he rose and shook both men's hands and disappeared out the door.

No sooner than Dr. Graham had gone, Sam grieved, "Oh God, Dean…"

Soundless tears trailed one after another down Sam's cheeks and he couldn't bring himself to steal a look at his dad. Meanwhile, John just sat in muted disbelief, feeling like he'd just been kicked in the stomach. He could not wrap his mind around the surgeon's words. They made no sense; he couldn't be talking about his son. This was not happening. Before either man could recover himself, a couple of nurses and an attendant came in to help them into their wheel chairs.

Not having anything to contend with but a small cast on his wrist along with some gauze placed here and there and a walking cast (which looked much like a knee brace) immobilizing his leg, Sam was left waiting out in the hallway as they carefully maneuvered his father with his two large casts - one on his right arm and one on his right leg - into the wheelchair. The doctor that had worked on John was able to place the cast on his leg just below the gunshot wound so that it could be tended to as well. Funny that no one had asked about that - at least not yet.

Once the ICU ward came into view, Sam could feel his stomach clench up in spasms of nervous terror - he wasn't sure he wanted to do this. Yes, he desperately wanted to see Dean, but he was also afraid of what was waiting behind the glass doors. Sam wondered if his father was feeling jittery, too.

John's heart was heavy from the stony embrace of dread and guilt. Guilt because this was most assuredly his fault, dread because he wasn't sure what to expect. Disbelief had wound tendrils of denial around his brain…he just couldn't accept the doctor's words. He frantically clung to the comforting belief this was just some big cosmic joke and that there was nothing to really worry about or feel guilty for.

A couple of minutes later, the two men breeched the transparent barrier separating them from Dean. Nothing could have possibly or adequately prepared either man for the sight that met their eyes. First Sam's and then John's heart plummeted to the floor and, in that same instant, the heartache sucked their breath away. Lying before them was not the Dean they knew and depended on. This Dean was barely recognizable. This Dean was white as a sheet, still and unanimated, frail and sickly.

He had tubes running from his mouth where the ventilator hissed and spewed air into and out of his lungs, there was a tube projecting from his side where the blood and air drained away from his insides, and from his arms sprouted several IV's which hung around him -some with clear liquids and some with blood. The air around him was filled with the hum of the blood pressure cuff as it intermittently gauged Dean's blood pressure and the beep of the cardiograph monitoring his heart. On his big toe was an oximeter for measuring his blood gases.

With a tiny squeak of the wheelchair, Sam's nurse pushed him to Dean's right side. John's nurse pushed him around the bed and up close to the other side of his son. Luckily, Dean's bed was low enough to the ground that neither man had to stand to peer into Dean's face.

Taking his older brother's chilled hand into his warm one, Sam looked into his brother's face through a fresh batch of unchecked tears. For a long moment, Sam just sat with the elder man's hand tightly grasped in his own and let the grief wrack through his entire body - a single, "Oh, Dean," breaking free from his trembling lips.

The mechanical whir, beep and whistle of the machines suddenly became lost among the broken sobs coming from John. Sam jerked his gaze up to his father's face, not trusting his ears' interpretation. There his father sat, his free hand covering his face as he wept openly at the sight of his son. "What have I done?" he cried aloud, "Dean, I'm so sorry. Please forgive me, please…"

John's wake-up call was finally too obvious to ignore. The sight before him shredded his conscience and wouldn't be denied any longer. This was Dean, his first-born, lying here dying - kept alive only by so many machines and medical interventions. Unfortunately for John, fate chose at that moment to replay memory clips of newborn Dean, toddler Dean and five year old Dean through his mind. Those big, trusting eyes looking up into his, a tiny little hand tugging on his arm and the all too fleeting toothy smiles of childish glee. Next came less happy images of green eyes brimming with hurt and abandonment, a fallen face full of disillusionment and then lastly, the mask of apathy and growing way too old at a very young age.

Dumb struck by his father's obvious grief, Sam could no longer look upon his dad or acknowledge his father's obvious agony. Instead, he turned back to Dean and concentrated his focus there. Astonishingly, Dean looked so young now. Why had Sam never noticed it before?

Despite his pallor and the dark bruising under his closed eyes, there was something so peaceful about the way his brother looked. Sometimes Sam forgot just how young Dean really was. The elder Winchester had always filled both the mother and father roles for Sam - he'd just taken it for granted that Dean was only 4 years older. Of course, the disguise of indifferent indignation that Dean had perfected to a T made him seem older than that of his 27 years.

Even now, he was just a kid really, certainly way too young to be on death's doorstep. Nausea and rage grappled inside Sam, vying for first place - Dean didn't deserve this, he deserved to be happy with a family of his own - he deserved a home full of people who would return his fierce loyalty and love. Swallowing a big lump lodged painfully in his throat, Sam gingerly began smoothing Dean's hair back from his forehead, being careful to avoid the big, puffy bandage on his forehead.

How many times had Dean done something very similar to this all those many times Sam had been sick with a childhood illness? You would make a great father to some lucky kids some day, big brother. The shocking realization came to Sam with such stunning clarity that he had to blink a few times in wonder. But, why so shocking? Sam had observed how well Dean seemed to relate to children over the course of the last year, not to mention how he had been a wonderful replacement father figure for Sam. Maybe it should be more of a shock that Sam had never seen it before - so much for being psychic wonder boy.

"Hey, Dean, it's Sam - Sammy," he corrected, continuing to tenderly stroke his sibling's cool and clammy face, "and I want you to listen to me. You're going to be just fine… and don't worry about anything besides getting better. Dad and I are here and we need you to be well. Just, please get better, okay? I'm not leaving you; I'll be right here watching your back like you've always done for me." With a hiccup of regret he continued, "Listen, Dean, when you get better we're going to have to talk. I've got some things to say that I think you really need to hear."

"Yeah, I know how much you hate chick-flick moments," Sam half chuckled, "but it's something that we need to do. Dean, you're the best big brother I could've ever hoped for…and I need you to know that I understand now just how much I've taken it for granted that you'll always be there for me. I never realized before that all of this…stuff…has hurt you just as deeply as it hurt me. I'm sorry that I never took the time to notice it and that I selfishly ignored the most important constant in my life. Dean, if you can hear me, you've got to get better so you can kick my butt for being such a complete jerk."

With a quivering lip but no other sign of his initial breakdown, John leaned near his son and placed his big, work-roughened hand on a free spot near Dean's wrist, giving it a quick squeeze.

Inspired by his youngest son's professions, he began, "Son, you listen to your brother and get better. I'm countin' on it. You have to do this for me, Son. Your brother needs you - heck, Dean; I need for you to be okay. Do you hear me? I need to know that you're gonna be okay. I'm a selfish SOB and I expect you to do this for us."

Sighing softly and flicking a single tear quickly away, John closed his eyes and briefly ducked his head before lifting it once again with as tender a smile as Sam had ever seen on his face.

"You know, I can still remember the day you were born. It was one of the three happiest moments in my life - the other two being the day your mom agreed to marry me and," he pointedly looked into Sam's hesitant eyes before continuing, "the other was the day your baby brother was born."

"Shocking, I know, but I once knew the meaning of family and where it should rank in a person's list of priorities. If you'd told me that I would've failed so miserably as a father back then, I'd have met that statement with a punch in the pie hole - but when your mom died…I just kinda lost myself and you two boys along with me in my grief. I think this is the first time since then that I have managed to resurface from that black, dark hole. I can only hope you can forgive me," he lamented, this last point being meant for Sam as well as Dean.

John paused, searching Sam's ravaged face for some sign of forgiveness. For what seemed like a very long, uncomfortable moment, Sam sat with a 'deer in the headlights' expression on his face.

Voice cracking slightly, Sam responded, "Dad, I…I don't know what to say…"

"It's okay, Son, I understand," John remorsefully broke eye contact, "I know I'm asking a lot…"

"No, Dad, I mean…," Sam broke in, "I…we…understand. Really, we do."

Feeling at a loss by the unconditional support of his baby son, John could only sit bound by his wheelchair and nod his relief.

Mustering up a little courage, he whispered, "Thanks, Son - I never meant…for this, any of it, to happen. I'm one lucky man to have two great boys like you two."

Then John flashed a brief smile and let the unspoken words between them echo in his eyes and expressions instead.

"Sam, did I ever tell you about your brother's first few breaths of life? After a long, difficult labor he was finally delivered…they had to use those salad tongs on 'im. Always was stubborn. Your mom was just so beat…but the minute they placed him into her arms, all of her fatigue just seemed to fall away. They just sat and looked into each other's eyes like they were old friends."

"Naturally, all the nurses cooed and fussed over what a beautiful baby he was. Dean was the prettiest baby I've ever seen in all my life. His eyes were so big and searching…and he was a really good baby. Never did cry much at all. "

Sam smiled - touched by his father's memories and his eyes urged John on.

"Now, you," he smirked, "you were the liveliest baby ever born. Cute as a bug in a rug in much the same way as a lost little puppy, but very moody. Came out of your mom ready to take on the world, too. You were always one step ahead of yourself. When your body refused to keep up with your mind, you'd work up one heck of a tantrum and begin wailing at the top of your lungs. Of course, your mother always had a talent for calming you down just as your brother always had a talent for making you laugh."

"You were also somethin' of a little Houdini, too. Your brother and I couldn't seem to keep you pinned up for very long no matter how hard we tried. But, Dean…he had an unending supply of patience with you. He never lost his temper or gave up tryin' to teach you things."

Wistfully, John continued, "I always knew that you and your brother had somethin' special between the two of you. Right from the start Dean appointed himself as your personal bodyguard and you looked to him for guidance and directions."

John smirked at Sam, and then said, "It used to make me so angry every time I gave you an order and you automatically looked to Dean for his approval before acknowledging it."

John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, then asked, "Did you know that Dean slept with you in your crib every single night? Of course, this was after your mom'd died and I guess I should've expected it since Dean became your main caretaker."

Shaking himself from his reverie, he met Sam's eyes and murmured, "Always good boys, though, couldn't have asked for better."

Both men shared another quick smile and then fell back into silent repose, both gazes falling down onto the one that had always held them together through the best and worst life had thrown them. In that solemn passage of time, two men heretofore joined only by blood and the love of the one lying in the space between them began to bond in the wake of grief, confession, and mutual understanding.

Not wanting to break the fledgling connection forming between them, neither one dared to say more or to break contact with their family protector. Instead, they sat huddled close to their Dean and alternated between silent prayers to God and mentally trying to will the good soldier back to full health.

As the minutes ticked by, John regarded his two sons before him. Sam had drifted off about a half hour earlier, his head still perched near Dean's shoulder and his long, slender fingers still wrapped around his brother's limp, open hand. Somehow Dean had managed to make it through the night and the doctors and nurses had generously allowed Sam and John to come back to for a visit once they had both agreed to eat some breakfast. Just a little after eleven now, John fully expected that Dean's doctors would come in shortly and shoo them back to their room while they evaluated young man's condition once again and ran even more tests.

Poor Dean was beginning to resemble a pincushion from all the blood tests and IVs. For the first time since his boy had come out of surgery, John began to allow a warm wisp of hope to begin stirring deep down inside, mixing hesitantly with the churning worry and fear. The doctor had said that the next 24 hours would be critical and, so far, Dean had managed to hold his own for about 12 of those 24 hours.

John soon began to feel his own eyelids grow heavy as he, too, began to nod toward a light dream state. As always, though, the dreams would fall away to reveal nightmares from before, when the demon had dwelled in his body keeping him captive in his own skin and, as always, he would relive those horrible minutes over and over again.

In his mind's eye, he saw the stunned surprise on Dean's face as the demon gave John's son what he needed the most - his father's approval. Then, Dean's face would become tight with suspicion as the realization that his dad wouldn't be proud of him, and it stripped away his confidence.

Following this would be the screams of agony being ripped from his son's throat as the demon tore his flesh and squeezed his heart dry of all the blood. The last image to unfold would be the desperate pleas of his weakened son just before Dean's head would sag forward in unconsciousness.

As sleep's grasp drew John more deeply in, the nightmare would bend reality into his worst fears until he found himself alone in a darkened cemetery kneeling before his elder son's grave - his youngest son finally done with him for good and leaving nothing behind him but the heated words spoken in anger telling John what he already knew - this was his fault.

Just then, John's nightmarish world was jerked out from under him as he felt a large hand clamp down on his shoulder. Nearly falling face first from his wheelchair, John quickly looked up into the concerned face of one of Dean's many doctors. "You okay?" came the expected question.

Regaining his composure, John cleared his throat as hot embarrassment threatened to redden his face, "Umm, yeah. You must have caught me snoozing on the job."

Chuckling a little at that the doctor responded, "Sorry about that, John, I didn't mean to scare you. You look like you could use some rest, though. Tell you what; let's get you and Sam back to your room while I take a look at your son here. Maybe after a long nap and some hot lunch you boys can come back down and check in on Dean a little later. I promise we'll take good care of him, okay?"

"Only on one condition," Sam interrupted from behind the aging doctor, still wiping the sleep from his eyes.

"And that would be?" the doctor's question came as he raised one speculative eyebrow.

"Well, I think we'd appreciate it if you could give us an update as soon as you are done."

This came with a small hint of pleading mixed with a stifled half-yawn.

"Sure thing, young man."

The doctor's facial expression and demeanor softened at Sam's worried manner. Using one finger to push his eyeglasses back into place, he remarked, "But right now I want the two of you back upstairs resting. Both of you have been spending way too much of your energy down here instead of healing your own bodies. If Dean gets through this, he's going to need both of you to be strong and healthy for him. If his condition changes one iota, I promise you'll be the first to know. So scoot along now and rest."

Reassured that the doctor would be good to his word, Sam and John allowed themselves to be wheeled back up to their own waiting beds. Once settled back in, the silence between them loomed thick and repressive. Sam nervously chewed at the tip of a hangnail as he was so accustomed to doing when feeling uncertain or uncomfortable.

He glanced furtively out of the corner of his eye at his dad, his thoughts still jumbled and upturned at the startling turn of events last night at Dean's bedside. Never, ever, had he heard his dad speak of Dean or his own birth. All things before his mom's death had been cataloged and stored - inaccessible to both boys. Wow, last night, he thought to himself, Dad really opened up for a few seconds. He must be really scared to allow himself to break down and share himself like that. Talk about your 180's - I never thought I'd see thet day. I wonder if he regrets saying those things to me. What am I saying, he's Dad, and of course he does - he'll never change.

"Listen, Sam…"

Uh-oh, Sam thought, here it comes - he's going to take it all back and slam the door shut once again.

"…about last night…I'm sorry son, the things I said…well, you know," John stumbled, having trouble getting the words out, "all of those things I told you should've been said years ago."

Yeah sure, Dad, go ahead and cop out on us - why Dean has so much faith in you I'll never…wait, hold up, what? Sam did a double take. "You…mean," Sam stammered, "you…don't regret having that conversation?"

"No, Son, this is stuff I should've shared with you years ago. I'm just so sorry that it took almost losing my sons to realize it. I mean, Dean…he could've died…could still die...I just wanted you to know I'm not completely stone-hearted."

John smiled sadly, and said, "I can't change the past, I wish I could, but I can't and I don't know if I can change now after years of neglecting that part of myself, but I'm…aware…of how much you two boys mean to me. I'll never allow "the job" to come before my sons again."

"Huh," Sam muttered below his breath, his eyes focused on his preoccupied hands resting in his lap. "You know, Dad, Dean is really going to hate this touchy-feely stuff, but I think he needs to hear this coming from you and not second-handed from me."

"Uh, yeah, I guess he probably does," John quietly agreed, not able to meet Sam's expectant gaze.

"I mean… the things the demon said to him…I think he believes it. The way his face just froze…he looked like someone had just stripped his soul bare for the entire world to see. What was it the demon said…that we don't need him like he needs us...I think that was it.

After John silently let the remarks hang in the air between them, Sam continued, "And I believe he said that your fights with me were more concern then was ever shown to him. Do you really think Dean believes that - that we don't need him?" Sam looked back to his dad now, searching for some comfort from the older man, a frown causing Sam's face to wrinkle and twitch.

Another long pause stretched between them as John tried to collect his thoughts, his memories of the scene Sam referred to. What John really wanted to do was blow it off and make some neat and tidy joke about Dean's ego and sweep it back under the rug where it couldn't pick at his conscience.

Finally, he allowed himself to speak, saying, "I don't know, Sam. I don't think anyone is ever really sure of what is going on in Dean's mind. Dean has always been…complex."

"When your brother was small," John related, "he was always very sensitive to the emotions and feelings of others around him. Particularly if it involved him. His feelings were always easily hurt and his heart was soft…much like your mother's…but…after your mom, he just kind of locked that part of himself away. I blame myself for that, I encouraged it. Told myself I was doing it for him, but really I did it because it made it easier to deal with the situation we found ourselves in."

Sam mulled this over for while. He tried to take in everything he knew about his older brother and everything his father had just revealed about Dean the child and tried to solve the riddle that was his macho, quick-witted brother. Over the past year, Sam had gotten to see glimpses into Dean's heart and had been surprised at what he'd seen. Seeing Dean through the eyes of an adult was different from his perspective of Dean from when they were kids. His brother, he discovered, had more layers than a Texan at the North Pole.

That Dean had allowed these glimpses had been the most surprising thing. Dean, who was a self professed chick-flick-phobic, had been the one to open up to his brother and tell him his deepest fears about losing his family. It'd been Dean who'd told Sam more than once how much he needed him in his life. In Salvation, Dean had nearly broken down during their confrontation after their failed attempt at killing the demon.

During that brief outpouring of raw emotion, Sam had witnessed fear and need in his brother's eyes…and something more…he couldn't quite put his finger on it. But the fear and need was definitely there. Fear of being left alone, fear of losing those closest to him and the need to be needed and loved by his brother and his father.

Dad was right, Dean was complex. Funny he had never realized it before. Sam knew he owed his brother a lot more credit than he had given him up until now. Thinking back to how frighteningly frail Dean had looked in his bed on the ICU ward threatened to break Sam's heart anew.

Sam became suddenly aware of just how little he did know his big brother. He also became very afraid that he'd never get that chance. One thing Sam knew for certain, he was completely resolved to getting to know who his brother really was whether Dean liked it or not. If he lives…that is.

"Dad," Sam whispered, small hitches tripping up the words, "he has to be okay...he has to know that the demon lied…he can't die believing those things. I need the chance to tell him…that…I…," Sam trailed off unable to express himself to his father of all people.

Before John could answer, the kind doctor from before poked his head around the corner and joked, "Ah, I see you two are still awake - against doctor's orders I might add."

Then, seeing the serious, desperate expression lining Sam's face, the doctor came fully into the room and rested a calming hand on Sam's arm.

"Well, Sam, I remember having promised a certain young man that I'd report to him first thing after my exam of his brother," the doctor continued more soberly, gently. "I'm going to shoot straight with you because I know I'd want that courtesy given to me in this situation."

The doctor looked Sam square in the eyes as he explained, "While Dean is nowhere close to being out of the woods yet, he is definitely not getting any worse. We're very confident that we've quelled any internal bleeding he may've had and his vital signs have improved slightly. His body is no longer in shock and we are taking him off the blood transfusions."

"We are going to continue with the antibiotics and he'll probably be on the ventilator for another five to six days at minimum. This will give his lungs a chance to heal and perhaps he can breathe on his own after that. We are still watching him closely for signs of infection and any bleeders we might have missed. While his body is very weak right now, he does have a fighting chance as long as we can keep the blood loss at bay and no further complications come up."

Sighing heavily, the physician addressed John and said, "Providing he gets over the worst of this, however, he's going to need respiratory therapy and lots of rest. This isn't going to be a quick recovery with a short bout of doctor's visits. He is a very sick man right now and it's going to take his body a very long time to recover."

"In the meantime, I strongly suggest that you all try to build your own bodies back up. He's going to need a lot of care and support from you. So, please, I can't stress it enough - get some rest and take care of yourselves. If there is anything I can do to help, don't hesitate to ask me. Now, I must get back to work, but before I go, do you have any further questions?"

"Uh, yeah," Sam heard himself ask, "what about brain damage? 'Cause, I know he stopped breathing for quite a while at the scene. Plus, I've had a little EMT training and I know that severe chest injuries can sometimes cause brain damage."

"While it is a possibility," the doctor began, fiddling with something in his pocket, "we won't really know anything for sure until he regains consciousness. For the short term, we just want to make sure that he makes it that far and then deal with whatever repercussions he's suffered from the accident when we know a little more. Okay?"

Sam gave a short, double nod of his head indicating he understood, but didn't look up from his nervously working fingers.

"All right, then, I'll check in on him again later and we'll all just take this one step at time."

The doctor shook both men's hands and then ducked out the open door, his mind already set on his next patient.

A new set of worries occupying his mind, John stared out the open window next to his bed while Sam released another long, heavy sigh before leaning his head back on his pillow and lifting his eyes up to the ceiling. Neither one felt like talking much just then, and so there they sat in morose contemplation until they both fitfully drifted off to sweet slumber - unable to fight their own body's desire for a much needed afternoon nap.

TBC

a/n: Wow, I am completely flattered by all the kind reviews. Thanks so much and sorry if I didn't get back to you personally, real life keeps interrupting me.

Thanks to Mady Bay for beta'ing this chapter for me. I need all the help I can get.