Author's notes: Okay my dear friends, you earned this chapter. I'm happy I'm able to post this today, because it's probably my favourite chapter and I'm really excited what you think.

Enjoy!


Chapter 09


It took Sam a moment to realize that the obtrusive sound poking his restless slumber wasn't part of a weird dream. However, as muffled and tiny it was, it was also everything Sam needed to get catapulted to alertness in an instant.

Almost dropping the vibrating device, Sam hastily maneuvered the cell phone to his ear.

"Dad!"

Silence. No greeting. No nothing.

"Dad?" Could he have called him accidently? Forgotten about the keylock? Or was dad playing tricks with him? Trying to be funny? Which probably meant he was as pissed as a newt...

There. A hitching breath.

Sam's heart sank. What the...?

"Dad? You there? Answer me!"

Still no answer. And slowly but surely he felt something between rage and desperation boil up in him. If he wouldn't get an answer he swore he'd yell into the phone and he wouldn't give a rat's ass if his dad would drop from a bar stool or get a heart attack. He wasn't in the mood for...

"Sammy..."

The budding fire was smothered instantly.

From a very young age Sam had learned to categorize his father's tone. It always displayed the mood his dad was in. Cheery, melancholy, impatient, pissed, royally pissed. The margin was enormous.

What reached his ear in this very moment belonged to a category Sam wasn't sure if it even existed.

Dad's tone was low, tired, gravelly. There was almost no strength in there. In combination with the term of endearment his father had stopped to use quite a long time ago it was absolutely frightening and unnerving.

Sam felt like being sucker punched.

Don't panic. This could mean anything. Dad's drunk because he's been through a lot, cut him some slack. He's tired. And he's worried. Don't panic. The man needs a drink from time to time. Has to vent somehow. It doesn't mean anything.

Don't. Panic.

"Yeah. I'm here." Damn, he sounded like a child right now. Man up, Sam. Your father needs you strong.

If it weren't for this pit in his stomach.

There was a silence once again. Then, a long, weary breath, dragged in through lungs that had been exposed to the smoky air of a dirty bar for too long.

Definitely drunk.

Oh God no.

Dean.

"You know…I've never been the touchy type. Fondling, stroking your hair, cuddling…I rarely did that. Mary did, though. All the time. And when one of you were sick, she hardly left your side."

Sam looked around frantically, tried to make out a corner far away from anyone through his blurring vision. He didn't need a seat, didn't need a bench. Just some room for himself and his sudden sickness where he could sink down to the floor.

That wasn't his dad. No way in hell belonged that voice his dad. It couldn't be. Just couldn't. Sam wanted the voice to cease, to shut up, to stop right now and never speak on. Because it was about to tell him something he didn't want to hear. But at the same time it would reveal something about a mother he had never really had the chance to get to know and a father who had been a different person back then.

"I was more …the efficient guy in charge whenever Dean or you were running a fever. I came, put my raw ginormous hands onto your little foreheads and announced if there was a temperature or not, made wise suggestions what to do…all that practical stuff. I think it was because I thought that someone had to stay calm and…I don't know…take up the reins. Your mom giving you all the love by holding you and…caressing you boys…and me searching for a way to make you better…by making soup because it was the only thing I was able to cook. Or by calling the doctor or driving to the pharmacy…"

Feeling his back impacting softly with a wall, Sam leaned against it. His grip on the cell phone was vise-like, his free hand was pressed against his temple.

"After your mom died…I still couldn't adopt her marvelous way with you two…this devotion only a mother can have towards her children…it can't be learned, it's simply there. Me, I…I kept this…sickness management going…but I sucked with it. If anything, I made it worse because I got angry every time one of you went out of commission. I don't know why…maybe because I was helpless. Maybe because I was scared that something might happen to one of you. That I might lose you and have to watch because I'm not able to do anything.

"I was lucky, you know. I had Dean. Whenever something was wrong with you, I had Dean to take over your mom's position. He even took over a part of mine, told me to do this or that while I was too occupied with cursing and pitying myself for not being able to take care of a baby."

The monologue broke off. It was once again replaced by silence. A silence Sam welcomed this time. Because he wasn't sure if he could take much more.

"Dad…why are you...why are you telling me this?" Now it was his breath hitching. His voice being gravelly and barely audible. He didn't want to ask. And for the love of God, he didn't want an answer.

Hang up. Hang up.

"Tell me..."

Please. Hang. Up.

"Tell me what's wrong..."

Sam didn't know how long he waited for his father's reply. Probably a few seconds. Maybe half a minute. It could have been just as well two hours. He was trapped in some kind of cocoon. Time stood still.

Until his cocoon was squashed in the most vicious way.

"They told me to call a priest, Sammy. They told me that Dean won't make it…he might not survive the night…"

He didn't feel it when his legs betrayed him. How they gave way like fragile blades of grass under the heavy, careless step that was fate. Always there to kick his ass. Always right on time when it came to his loved ones.

Sam slid down the wall, not bothering, not able to break his fall. His surroundings faded. People turned to shapes and blurs.

"Learning that my son is dying is the trigger for me to go to him and touch him. The things I never did, never could…for 25 years…it takes a fucking white coat to tell me that I'm losing my child before I finally drag myself to Dean's bedside and touch him. Like a father would. Run my fingers through his hair. Take his hand in mine. Tell me Sam…what kind of father am I? What kind of…pathetic unloving scum am I?"

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. His father's grief pelting down on him, his own hurricane of sorrow and anguish – it threatened to rip him apart. This was a dream. A nightmare. Someone else's drama. His father didn't talk like this. And his brother was immortal. Nothing could bring them down, nothing. They were like rocks in a surf. Both. Stubborn jerks. Right?

Through the roaring in his ears Sam picked up the sounds that shattered everything he was trying to persuade himself. Feeble, choked up sobs. His dad was crying. Still tried to hide it, still suppressed it. He could have just as well wailed and scream – it made no difference. It tore Sam apart no matter how quiet or loud his dad suffered.

It said you'd watch your life pass by when you die. He hadn't known that it passed others, too. Images of his brother popped up in Sam's mind, snapshots, small scenes. Moments that had been precious enough to be etched into his memory.

Dean's voice close to his ear while Sam sat on a too large bicycle, attempting to drive on his own for the first time. His brother's surprised but proud raise of eyebrows at Sam's first bull's-eye after countless months of weapon training. His heated glare whenever they were arguing. Dean's lips forming an encouraging smile while his eyes were crying the last time they had seen each other.

No.

No way.

He wouldn't accept that.

Wiping his eyes angrily, he cleared his throat and tried to get a grip. Dean wasn't dead yet. He didn't care what some doctor said, as long as his brother was breathing, as long as there was any chance, no matter how tiny it was, he wouldn't accept such a prophecy.

"Stop it", he half-growled, half-sobbed, "stop pretending as if Dean's already gone. Since when do you believe in doctors words anyway, huh? How often did they say something like this about Dean, about me, after a hunt gone south? Look at us, dad! We're still here!"

Even after all the blood we've lost, the injuries we've received, the almost-deaths, all thanks to your crusade, thanks to the life you lead us into. Maybe this is the wake-up call you needed.

"I believe the doctors since I saw him, Sam."

It was an answer Sam didn't want to hear and didn't want to think about. "That's to be expected, I mean he's..."

"You haven't seen him…you weren't there…back there on that construction site. I still don't know how I got him to a hospital in time. And I still don't know how he survived the last days. But what I know is...what I know is how my boy looks. And...the person in that goddamn hospital bed..."

He broke off and Sam clenched his jaw. Don't say it. Don't you dare say it.

"...it's not your brother anymore, Sam. It's a shell. There's nothing left."

The youngest Winchester fought to keep his temper in check. If he could he would reach through his cell and throttle this damn coward. But rage and fury wouldn't help now. Not them. Not Dean.

"How can you say that? Where is your faith, dad?"

He wasn't prepared for the snort that reached his ear.

"Funny, everybody wants to know that lately…"

Sam frowned, but decided to ignore the remark. "Then it shouldn't be a problem to pull it out from all the stuff it's buried under, don't you think?"

Sam's chin was trembling. Because of rage, because of sorrow, he didn't know. His father didn't answer, but at least there were no sounds indicating that he was still in tears. Again Sam wondered if he had ever witnessed his dad crying. Back then after his mom's death he had been too young. And ever since Sam could remember dad had always been the hard, determined man. Dean probably remembered. Had certainly caught their dad more than once. Had kept him from tumbling over the edge countless times on his way to become the hunter and man he now was.

Seemed as if it was Sam's turn now. Catch their dad and keep him sane.

"Dad? You still there?"

No answer. Damn the stubborn guy and his silence thing.

"Dad!"

"I'm going to call Jim…"

Sam's mouth shut with an audible click before he exploded. "No, you won't...damnit, it's a waste of time because Dean will get better, you hear, he will and all I want, all I fucking demand from you is to have some confidence in him…"

"SAM!" The sudden strength and volume of his father's voice stopped him immediately. And even though Sam's heart screamed at him to fight, to keep dad from dropping his brother so fast because calling Pastor Jim meant believing the doctors and giving up on Dean and the hell was he going to play along, even though he wanted to raise protest with all his might, Sam waited and listened.

When he heard his father's voice again it had morphed back to a calm, quiet tone once more.

"I'm going to call Pastor Jim and tell him what the doctors said. That's all. I'll call him as a friend, not as a priest. Okay? Satisfied?"

Swallowing, Sam closed his eyes. He was about to say 'Thank you'. Was about to tell his father to snap out of it. That everything would be fine. That Dean would be fine. That as soon as he would arrive at the hospital they were going to talk him awake, that dad and him would fight or sing or tell him bad jokes until Dean would open his eyes to tell them to shut the hell up.

"Okay." It was all he managed at the moment.

"Go to sleep now."

Sam almost huffed out a laugh, but bit his tongue. What sounded like an order was much more then that. It meant dad was worried about him. And that he wasn't drunk enough to say 'I love you, son'. But it meant almost the same.

"You, too."

Another pause. Another noise sounding suspiciously like a stifled sob.

"Don't know if I can."

It was enough to cause Sam's vision to blur once again. He hadn't been prepared for such a honest answer.

"What makes you think I can?" Sam asked softly, clenching his jaw to keep it from trembling. Again.

"Never mind. Goodnight."

Sam had no time to reply. The next thing he heard was the annoying beep indicating that the call has been disconnected. Keeping the cell close to his ear, he pressed the heel of his free hand into his eye.

"Goodnight, dad."


To be continued…