A/N: Well, I wasn't going to update again this week but you guys are so lovely with your follows and reviews that I thought you deserved it. Remember to let me know what you think after you read! And also: even though I know where I'm going with this story, I'm still in the process of writing it so if there are any suggestions or scenes you'd like me to consider, don't be afraid to let me know.


Unable to fall back asleep or even stay still, Sam wandered out of Dean's room and into the rest of the ICU. Five of the other beds were occupied, all with residents who looked like they were about eighty years old, leaving Dean as the baby of the unit, the misplaced child in an adult's world.

"Sam?" Angie waved him over from the nurse's station and he went, shoulders slumped forward as his hands dug into his jean's pockets, searching for something to cling to. Sam felt as though he was slipping down a steep hill with nothing to stop his descent.

"Why don't you go get some rest?" Angie asked him, continuing quickly when he started to protest. "Leave me your cell number and I'll call you the minute something changes, I promise."

"I'm fine," Sam said but the words were thick like glue and the slightest bit slurred.

"Just a couple hours," the nurse said. "You won't do Dean any good by making yourself sick."

Sam's bones felt heavy inside his skin, as if they had been replaced with lead weights intent on denying gravity. He hadn't eaten anything since dinner yesterday, hadn't had anything to drink either except for a cup of coffee John had brought him hours ago and the lack of nourishment was making his head fuzzy,

"Okay," he said and Angie led him to the doors and helped him strip from the hospital scrubs, throwing them straight in the trash and pushing a Styrofoam cup of steaming caffeine into his hands.

"I'll look after him for you," she assured him and with that, Sam turned and walked away.

The Oldsmobile, which Jess affectionately called the Hulking-Piece-of-Crap, was waiting for him in the parking lot and Sam slid into the seat, sitting there for a good ten minutes, trying and failing to wrap his head around what was happening. His brother was dying. Dean. The one who had gotten up early his whole life just to make Sam breakfast, the one who took him to that field behind Bobby's junkyard and taught him how to throw a football instead of shooting a .45 like John wanted. Sam's life hadn't exactly been conventional but it was his brother who had made it worth living. Dean was the one who was there with a joke every time Sam was frustrated or upset. He had held Sam in his arms through bouts of crying, had stayed up all night with him whenever Sam had gotten sick.

And even though Sam had left Dean behind three years ago, he – just like John – had never fathomed that the happy-go-lucky Winchester would ever be…gone. Dean was the embodiment of life, an energy so strong and thriving that Sam figured the planet's rotation was strung into place by his brother's very existence.

Except it wasn't.

For some reason unknown to Sam, the universe had decided to snatch his most valued possession from him when he hadn't been paying attention. Leaning against the headrest, Sam closed and his eyes and imagined going back to his life at Stanford, to slipping into bed next to Jess and pretending that none of this had happened. Could he do that? Would it be possible to move on with his life after Dean was no longer with them? Sam's chest ached at the thought and he started the car to avoid thinking of the answer.

The hotel was just across the street and Sam parked outside, swinging his backpack onto his shoulder before heading inside.

It was way nicer than any place he had ever stayed, not that that was saying much because usually John parked them at the second worst motel in town, always getting the room in the corner, shutting the curtains and locking the door the second they got inside.

The room was on the third floor and Sam could see the lights were on before he even swiped the key and pushed on the handle. John was seated on one of the two double beds in the room and he whipped around when he heard the door open, hand scrambling for the gun on the bedside table.

"It's just me," Sam said dully, not even glancing at the muzzle pointed at his chest.

"Sorry," John grunted but Sam shrugged and slipped off his shoes. "Is Dean the same?"

"Yeah. He, uh, actually woke up for a minute a little while ago." John looked pained at missing his older son's moment of consciousness but he didn't say anything. "The nurse has my number," Sam continued. "She's going to call if there's any change. They pretty much kicked me out."

"You should sleep," John agreed but then ducked his head slightly as if waiting for Sam's harsh words. His son said nothing, just pulled off the plaid button down he'd had on over his t-shirt and disappeared into the bathroom. John knew what was coming, he knew there was no way Sam was going to let him continue on without some type of confrontation so when his youngest son came back into the room with a look more dangerous than the Impala's stockpile, he was ready.

"So what happened?" Sam demanded. "Did you turn your back for a second? A minute? Did you even try to help him?" John wanted to fight back, wanted to argue because there was something about his youngest son that lit a fire in his veins, something about Sam that was capable of sending every rational thought out of the Hunter's head. But God, he was so tired. Full of an exhaustion and grief so crippling that not even the twenty-year-old standing in front of him could pierce through.

"He went by himself," John said. "I thought he could handle the hunt by himself." He stared at Sam's forehead as the kid's eyes widened, his expression akin to that of a storm cloud about to break open with heaven's fury.

"You did what?"

"It was supposed to be an easy job. The Rakshasa was supposed to be wounded, weakened." Sam's nostrils flared and he shifted on his feet. John thought he looked like he was trying to keep himself from pouncing.

"You're kidding, right? Is all this some game to you?" Sam insisted, voice rising. "You've spent the last twenty years playing some twisted version of Ghostbusters just to satisfy this ridiculous revenge notion of yours! And now look what happened. You got your son killed."

"Hey!" John snapped, finally looking his son in the eye, not even flinching when he saw nothing but pure hatred glaring back at him. "Dean asked to go on that hunt by himself! He's been begging me for ages."

If this was supposed to appease Sam at all, John was mistaken. Instead, Sam threw up both arms and took a step forward, his voice filling the room, bruising the air.

"Of course he wanted to! He's spent his entire life looking up to you like you're a hero or something. You've given him all sorts of stupid ideas about saving people and doing good when in fact you're in this fight only for yourself. So yeah, of course he wanted to, Dad. But that didn't mean you were supposed to let him!"

"I don't know if you've forgotten but I'm doing this for your mother!" Sam snorted and shook his head, pressure and tension building between the two of them.

"Get over it! She died two decades ago. And she left you with her children. You were supposed to take care of us. Instead, you ruined our childhood. I feel so sorry for Dean. He never even had a chance. You turned him into a soldier, just like you wanted to do to me. At least I was smart enough to see through you, to get away from it all." John's ability to keep calm had all but dissipated at the Sam's rough mention of Mary.

"Don't you dare talk about your mother that way! You have no idea-"

"Really, Dad?" Sam said. "Do you think Mom would have been happy that you put her oldest son in hospital bed? I might not have known her like you or even Dean but I'm pretty sure she would have sacrificed a hell of a lot more for Dean than you ever have."

"Enough!" John roared, taking his own step forward so that the two men were only a foot apart, vehemence rolling both of them in waves to strike against each other, two colliding oceans of outrage. "Every choice I made was for a reason and I'm sorry if you would have done it differently. But this is our life."

"Your life," Sam said. The words were a quiet admission but still John reared back as if slapped, as if somewhere deep inside him he truly believed that Sam was like him. After a moment, the Hunter shook his head and backed away, grabbing his coat off the nearest bed.

"I'm going to the hospital," John said and his voice no longer held the furious thunder from before. "I'll see you later." The door opened and then shut behind Sam and still he didn't move. His toes were curled around the carpet beneath his feet, his hands shaking slightly from the heated argument. Here his son was dying and John still refused to see that all of this had been a mistake, that his brutal way of living had cost him the life of his child. But Dean was just another sacrifice to John, Sam thought. Just another casualty in a war that was never going to be over, just another means to an end.

He collapsed onto the bed and turned to face the wall, knowing that the minute he closed his eyes nightmares of the old days would come rushing back to him because no matter how hard or long Sam ran from his past, it would always be faster, stronger. He hadn't managed to escape John those years ago, not really. And with that realization, Sam buried his face into his pillow and let the horrors come forth.

xxx

The phone didn't get past the first shrill ring before it was up against Sam's ear, his shoulders slamming against the headboard in an attempt to scramble out of bed.

"Hello?"

"It's me." Jess's voice came from the other end and Sam sank back onto the bed, one shoe dropping from his grip.

"Oh, hi."

There was a silence between them and Sam could tell that even though Jess didn't speak, she was annoyed. When you were with someone for over two years, you tended to pick up on things like that. But Sam had been expecting a phone call from the hospital to let him know how Dean was. Glancing at the clock, he saw he'd been asleep for four hours already. Anything could have happened in that time. His thoughts weren't exactly on his girlfriend at the moment.

"How's Dean?" Jess finally asked.

"Not good," Sam said and then heaved a sigh, sinking back into the pillows and throwing one arm up to cover his eyes. "He was attacked by an animal while on a hunting trip." He swallowed hard as memories of Dean's grotesque injuries flooded his mind.

"I'm so sorry, Sam," Jess said and he was relieved to hear that much of the annoyance had faded already, replaced by the tenderness he knew so well. "Do you want me to come there?"

"No," he said automatically then hurried for a reason. "My Dad is here and things aren't great between us. I don't want you to get in the middle of that."

Jess had been with Sam for twenty-seven months – yes, she kept track – and had never met a single one of his family members. As far as she knew, he only had a father and an older brother, Dean; his mother had died in a house fire when he was just a baby. There were no birthdays to celebrate, no family reunions, no tortuous holiday parties for the two to attend as a couple. Whatever family moments they had came from Jess's side of the family and even those, Sam tended to shy away from.

"I understand if it's not the right time," she said carefully. "But sometime I would like to meet your dad." There was a harsh sound on the other end of the phone and it took her a minute to figure out Sam had just laughed.

"Sorry," he said a second later. "But you know that I don't want you meeting him. He's not a good person."

"But he raised you," she insisted, just like she had numerous times before. Sam was quiet for a minute then said,

"Yeah, he did. And it was awful. Listen, he's really stressed about Dean and everything. It's just not a good time."

"Okay," Jess said, backing off. "But let me know if you want me to come."

"I will," Sam promised. "But I think I'll probably be back soon."

She heard the unsaid meaning that was woven through that last sentence, that awful implication that Sam's life was about to change in a way she couldn't imagine. She was an only child, had never fully understood Sam's attachment to his distant older brother. She might not understand it but she knew that Dean's death was going to destroy some part of her boyfriend.

"I love you," was all she said.

"I love you too," Sam said. "I'm going to head back to the hospital but I'll call you later."

After hanging up, Sam let himself lay on the bed for another five minutes before pushing off the comfortable mattress and digging his shoes out from under the bed. He slipped a new t-shirt out of his backpack and pulled it on, doing nothing else other than splashing water on his face before walking over to the hospital.

Once more decked out in the scrubs that made him look like a giant Smurf, Sam entered the ICU, going directly over to Dean. It was now eight in the morning and the ward was busier than it had been when he left. Another bed had been filled, a middle-aged woman lay two beds to Dean's right and she looked to be in much the same condition as his brother, with a ventilator humming beside her. The only difference was that this woman had a turban of bandages around her head.

John was sitting in the chair he had been in yesterday, eyes glazed over and unfocused as he stared at the boy in front of him. He started when Sam walked through the curtain.

"Hey," he said hoarsely, clearing his throat. "Did you sleep at all?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "Has the doctor been in?" John shook his head, leaning forward and stretching, rubbing his hands along his lower back in an attempt to ease the knots that had gathered there.

"Soon, I think. Here, that nurse from yesterday left you a note." He handed Sam a piece of paper – a prescription pad that had two sentences on it written in neat cursive.

Sam, I'll keep praying for Dean. And for you.

He stared at it for a second; the kindness of the young nurse inexplicably almost bringing him to tears. He folded the paper into quarters and stuck it in his pocket. John looked curious but didn't ask any questions.

"Hey, buddy," Sam said to Dean as he took his now-familiar seat. The fever spots were gone from Dean's cheeks and when Sam picked his hand, his brother's skin had lost that frightening chill. He actually felt like Dean again. "Sorry I left for a little bit but I'm back now. Jess says hi." Sam had been hoping with a blind optimism that Dean might be awake when he arrived or that he might acknowledge Sam's words in some way but his brother eyes stayed closed and he made no movement.

Dean's hair was longer than Sam remembered it, the last time he'd been with him, it was practically a buzz cut. It had grown a few inches since then and stuck up wildly from laying in the bed. His brother's freckles stood out in stark contrast in the paleness that was his skin and looking at him this close, Sam thought Dean's eyelashes looked impossibly long, brushing against his cheekbones as he slept.

"I always thought I had the good looks," Sam half-teased because it was just now that Sam was noticing how delicate his brother's features were, how much a loss this world was going to take after those freckles and eyelashes disappeared forever.

"He really does look like Mary," John murmured from the other side of the bed and Sam's head jerked up to stare at his father. "He's got her eyes and her nose." The hunter switched his gaze to Sam and the boy was struck by how incredibly sad John looked; it was the look he got every other time Sam had seem him talk about his late wife. But there was something deeper and heavier mixed into the expression now and for a moment, just a split second, Sam thought that maybe John was hurting just as much as he was.

But then he remembered that it was John who sent Dean out alone on a suicide mission and the moment of consideration was replaced by scalding anger.

"Did you know that Dean was blonde when he was little?" John was saying, not looking for an answer. "Just like his mother. She was so thrilled when he was born. I still remember it. Hard not to, it was snowing pretty hard, practically a blizzard. But this guy just didn't want to wait, did you?" John took Dean's other hand and Sam suddenly felt awkward and out of place, as if witnessing something he shouldn't be. If there was one thing that made him uncomfortable, it was vulnerability in a man that made a living killing in cold blood.

"And the first thing your mother did when she saw you was laugh," John continued, speaking directly to Dean now, placing a hand on his son's uninjured cheek before drawing away again. "She loved you to the ends of the earth, Dean." He swung his gaze to look at Sam. "She loved both of you so much," he told Sam.

So why couldn't you? Sam thought. You used up all your love on one person and when she was gone, you didn't know how to feel that again, did you?

But he said nothing to his father. There was really nothing left to say, no words that could right the complete wrongness of this situation. It was too late for all them. Too late for John to apologize. Too late for Sam to forgive. Too late for Dean to live.

"Good morning," came a voice from the doorway and both Winchesters turned to see an older woman in nurse's scrubs standing there.

"Morning," John said, letting go of Dean's hand while Sam kept his brother's other one clutched tight.

"I'm Marion, Dean's other nurse. How are you folks doing today?"

It wasn't a question that was expected to be paired with an answer and everyone in the room understood that as Marion moved into the room. She was bigger than Angie and made the small area feel cramped but there was an undeniable tenderness to her movements as she checked Dean's vitals.

"How is he?" John asked, watching her closely for any sign of his son's improvement – or lack thereof.

"His infection hasn't gotten any worse," Marion said, slipping on a pair of glasses that dangled from a chain around her neck. Her blonde hair was short and spiked up, shot through with streaks of grey. "So that's a good sign. Hmmm," she murmured to herself and Sam's spine straightened at the wavering tone.

"What?" he wanted to know. "What's wrong?"

"I'm going to go page Dr. Cantwell," the nurse said without looking at either one of them. "I'll be back in a few minutes." Sam stood as she left, scanning his brother's body for any signs of change but Dean looked the same as he had. The ventilator hadn't been moved, the feeding tube was in place. Dean's long arms were still uncovered and when Sam checked the bandages beneath the blankets, they weren't any bloodier than they had been yesterday. In fact, Sam thought there might even be less blood. Next, Sam's attention turned to the machines but the only one he even halfway understood was the heart monitor and it was ticking out the same beats as before, a steady beeping that would have irked Sam in any other environment instead of being the comfort it was here.

"What's wrong?" he demanded from John but the hunter lifted his shoulders in a shrug, gazing at Dean with the same anxious expression as Sam, his eyes sweeping his son with a gaze full of unpredictability and concern.

They didn't have to wait long for the doctor. Dr. Cantwell swept in with Marion at his shoulder, the nurse reciting a string of numbers as they moved over to Dean. The healthy Winchesters moved simultaneously into the same corner to give the doctor and nurse more room to work and Sam found his shoulder brushing up against his father's before moving a few inches away.

"What is going on?" John said. Sam felt his heartbeat increase and a cold sweat was soaking his palms, making his fingers twitch and curl.

"Dean's fighting the ventilator," the doctor said almost absentmindedly as he fiddled with the machine that stole and replaced Dean's breath with a steady rhythm.

"What does that mean?" Sam asked. "Is that bad?" Dr. Cantwell finally turned toward them, expression guarded and carefully neutral.

"The opposite actually. It means that Dean's lungs are working on their own to some degree." Sam's eyebrows disappeared into his bangs.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he repeated. The doctor shook his head, consulting his clipboard.

"We don't know. I'm going to perform an EEG – it measures brain activity more accurately and more in depth than the machine we have him hooked up to at the moment."

Neither John nor Sam said a word as Marion hustled them out of the room, pointing to two chairs in the hallway outside the ICU.

"I'll come get you when it's over," she said. "Just wait here and try not to worry too much." Sam gaped at her. Everything in the last ten minutes had happened so quickly, he was having problems processing what exactly was going on. He'd come to the hospital today prepared to say goodbye, to let Dean slide from this world to the next with nothing more than a few murmured sorries and a rare set of tears. And now there was a crowd of people in his brother's room and some huge machine was pushed past them a few minutes later. John paced the hallway as Sam stood by the doors, trying to see through the narrow window slot to Dean's room but the action was in vain. There were so many people huddled around Dean that Sam couldn't even see his brother's bed. He let out a growl of frustration.

"Sam, calm down," John ordered from across the hallway.

"Don't tell me what to do," Sam snapped. "I want to know what's going on."

"So do I. But they're not going to let you back in until you've calmed down," his father pointed out. Sam took a seat in one of the chairs, knotting his fingers together in distress, heels bouncing up and down against the linoleum floor.

"Did he kill the Rakshasa?" Sam asked suddenly, examining the white wall across from him, the dark shape of John at the end of his peripheral vision.

"Yes," John said. "It was dead by the time I found him."

"Good," Sam said, bobbing his head. "That's good." John took a few steps so he was in front of his youngest son.

"Listen Sam, I don't want you to get your hopes up, okay? Your brother was very badly injured. I was there, I saw him…there was just no way…"

"Are you giving up on him?" Sam said, voice sharp. "Are you okay with just letting him go?" He let out a mirthless laugh, a sound that chilled John to the bone; he recognized an inhuman noise when he heard one. "You'd probably be relieved if he died, wouldn't you?" Worry and fear were grating at Sam, taking away his rational thoughts and replacing them with these words that just kept pouring out of him. "Then you wouldn't have to worry about being a father anymore."

That's when the last strings of John's already fragile patience snapped and his fist connected solidly with Sam's face.