John returned Jeremy to his grandparents, catching the grateful smile Ellie turned his way as the little boy eagerly sidled up to his mother's bedside and started telling her about all about "Superman." He left the room, giving the small family some privacy and returned to his own sons.
"Anything?" he asked Sam who just shook his head. Dean's attempt at waking hadn't gotten far; the Hunter was still on his bed once more without even opening his eyes. John turned his attention to his youngest. "You okay?" He expected a swift nod, the now-familiar rigidity of Sam's shoulders that always occurred when John addressed him. Instead, those same shoulders sagged and Sam took a deep breath.
"I don't know," he said. "I just-." His voice faltered and trailed off. The tears that had started in the cafeteria as he held Jeremy close to him sprung forth again, as if they had been waiting for this moment and his promise not to cry shattered as he dropped his head into his hands. Long fingers pulled at his hair, scraping across his scalp and then John was next to him. The older man did it without thinking; it was instinct that had one arm wrapped around his son's shoulders. At first, Sam resisted the comfort, the way he cringed and pulled away reminded John of himself and he shook his head when he realized it was from him where Sam had learned this. How long had John been encouraging his children to keep their emotions locked away?
Then something changed and the sturdy weight of his son collapsed into John, so much so that John's chair scooted a few inches backwards before he could brace his feet against the floor. Sam was shaking in his arms, every inch of his skin trembling as if he'd been doused with water from the Arctic Ocean.
"Okay," John said softly. "I know, Sam." Sam's wandering fingers stilled at the tone of his father's voice and John took that opportunity to gently untangle them from his son's hair. "You're going to be okay." Sam shook his head violently, bent at the middle, shoulder driven into John's chest as he let himself go another notch. A tortured sob choked its way out from his lips and John made a decision.
"Come on," he said, standing, keeping both arms around Sam as his son's legs unfolded with his.
"Can't…leave," Sam gasped when John tried to steer him out the door. He flagged Marion down with one hand and the nurse hurried over with an anxious look, one hand reaching out automatically for Sam. He flinched at the unfamiliar touch, burrowing himself deeper into John and John had the distinct memory of a shy three-year-old Sam turning into his father's chest whenever anyone approached him.
"We're going back to the hotel," John said quietly.
"No," Sam mumbled, making a feeble attempt to detach himself from his father but there was little energy left in the boy and he was no match for John who held on even tighter.
"I'll stay with Dean," Marion said and her voice was the softest he'd ever heard it. "I promise I won't leave him."
"I can't leave him," Sam insisted but the words were just a whisper and then his feet were moving again, putting feet then yards then a set of double doors between him and his brother, letting the man he hated most in the world carry him away from the man he loved the most.
John allowed him to pull away a bit as they left the hospital but kept a firm hand on Sam's arm as he wove drunkenly through the parking lot and then up to the hotel room where Sam wrenched away and shut himself in the bathroom. John heard the shower turn on and sat down on his bed, turning the TV on but keeping it muted. He didn't expect Sam to call out for him but he kept his head turned in that direction for a long time, just in case.
Thirty minutes later and Sam still hadn't made an appearance. Not only that but the water was running just as it had been and there were no distinct sounds of movement as there should have been.
"Sam?" he called. No response. John banged his fist on the door and called out again but the only answers were the steady stream of water and the heat coming through the wooden door. He jiggled the handle, surprised to find it unlocked. "I'm coming in," he announced then swung the door wide, letting his gaze scan the room before falling on the huddled form at the edge of the bathtub.
Sam was seated on the edge of the tub, fully clothed, his head once again cradled in his hands. The curtain was drawn around the shower but the spray of hot water filled the room with thick humidity, coating the walls and floors with flecks of moisture that matched the tear stains that ran down Sam's cheeks as he tilted his head up at his father, eyes wild with something deeper than grief.
"Oh, Sam," John said, taking in the sight of his frenzied son. "Hey, easy there champ." He leaned over and shut the water off then sat down beside Sam. Tendrils of soaked hair stuck to his son's nape and John brushed them away, listening to the whimper his son let out at the feel of cool fingers. Noises rose from the kid like smoke from a fire, a constant stream that sounded almost like a soft chanting and John only had to listen a few seconds more to figure out what Sam was saying.
"DeanDeanDeanDeanDean."
It was only that one word, just four insignificant letters, but they carried an indomitable power over both men. John knew the boys had been close, had been inseparable all those long years but he'd never understand just how tightly their bond was until that moment, sitting in an overheated hotel bathroom, one arm wrapped around Sam while he wished the other could be holding on firmly to Dean, who felt miles away. John cursed himself for not realizing how much the last few days had been destroying Sam, slowly chiseling away at his strength and bravado until he was reduced to this: a mess of shuddering sobs and that never-ending litany.
DeanDeanDeanDeanDeanDean
"I'm sorry," John said. "I'm so sorry, Sam. For everything." Sam fell into him, just as he had at the hospital, blindly searching out the body next to him until his father's shirt was once again tucked in his fist. His head fit underneath John's chin as easily as when he was a child and for the first time in many, many years Sam let his father comfort him, let him rub soothing circles into his damp t-shirt.
They sat that way for a while until both of John's legs had gone numb from the hard surface they were seated on. Sam was still crying – John didn't know if he'd ever stop – but the incantation of his brother's name had ceased after those initial minutes. When John went to stand, Sam's grip on him tightened as if he were afraid his father was going to leave him there.
"Easy," John said. "Let's go out to the beds." Sam clutched to his father as they moved, almost slipping on the wet floor before settling onto Sam's bed. "You're soaked," John commented, leaving Sam alone for a second to grab a towel.
"Dean," Sam mumbled, his eyes red and swollen from crying but as they peered up at John, he was surprised to find how much they resembled Dean's in that moment, bright from the tears. "I need to go…"
"No, you don't," John said. "You're exhausted and if you don't sleep, you're going to get sick."
"'m not," Sam muttered but a fever was rising to his skin, a pounding pressure building against the walls of his head.
"Arms up," John said and tugged Sam's t-shirt off. "Here," he said, putting the towel in Sam's hands. "Dry yourself off." For some reason, this elicited a fresh batch of tears and John watched in frustration as Sam's lips quivered with unbound emotion.
"D-Dean."
"Okay," John muttered to himself, grabbing the towel back. It had been a long time since he'd been much of a father but somehow his hands were gentle as he brushed the soft cloth over his son's body and the stilted movements grew easy and familiar within a second. There was no way Sam would let him do this in normal circumstances but the boy seemed halfway catatonic, just sitting and staring blankly at his hands, leaking trails of salt water that dripped from his chin. When he was done drying him off, he wet a washcloth with cool water and ran it over Sam's face, catching the tears and staving off the flush that was creeping in. John kept Sam's chin in one hand as he worked swiftly with the other.
"My eyes itch," Sam whined as his father batted away his hands.
"From the crying," John said. "Don't touch them or you'll make it worse." Sam dropped his hands and his father finished the job, dressing Sam in a new shirt then pulling down the covers on the bed.
"Sam, take off your pants. They're dirty and wet." Sam glanced at him with a hollow expression but his fingers fumbled at the clasp and he slid out of the heavy material, allowing John to push him down onto the pillows, curling up instinctively. He looked so much like the small boy he had once been, John half expected him to stick a thumb in his mouth. Sam settled for blinking wearily, trying to fight sleep.
"I'm sorry," Sam whispered to John who was watching him closely. "Will you tell Dean I'm sorry?"
"He knows, Sam," John said. "And when he wakes up, you can tell him again."
The blankets heaved as Sam let out a deep sigh and then closed his eyes for good, still facing toward his father. John waited a minute then sighed himself and sat down on his own bed, not feeling his own tiredness at all. He would watch Sam as he had been watching Dean, would guard him as he slept and then together, the two of them would figure out a way to wake Dean up, to somehow heal what remained so broken between them.
xxx
Sam found the black sleep he'd been searching for all week and clung to it for hours with John watching from first his bed then the chair by the window and back to his bed again. The TV was still on but it was all but ignored as the Hunter stole frequent glances at his sleeping son. The moans and whimpers had subsided within seconds of Sam closing his eyes and he was still curled up on his side, hands tucked under his chin, only the blankets moving in time with his soft breaths. He slept for so long that John left the room to pick up a pizza across the street and returned to find Sam in the exact same position as he left him.
It was hard to believe he was only twenty years old. Sometimes, his sons felt as old as he did. They had certainly seen enough to wise them up a few decades, had dealt with more misfortune and death than the next hundred men. Sam had killed – albeit, things worth killing – but still, he had taken lives with his palms wrapped around the handle of a gun or the hilt of a knife. He'd driven stakes into hearts, severed spinal cords, even plucked fangs out of a creature's mouth with a pair of pliers. All before the age of eighteen.
What had taken John so much time to realize that he had snatched his sons' childhood out from under them? Sam had never even had one to begin with; he grew up learning Latin chants aside multiplication tables, had taken art class at the same time his father showed him how to draw ancient runes of protection. All the while, John was blind to what he was doing, hadn't given it more than a second thought when he taught Dean to shoot at age six, leaving them alone for the first time when his eldest was only eight years old, Sam a mere four.
But now John could see that there was still baby fat on Sam's cheeks; he'd yet to acquire the hollowed look of his father and for that, John was grateful. Sam had his whole damn life ahead of him and it dawned on the older Hunter that it wasn't his right to make decisions for the boys anymore. Maybe when they were younger, too young to know what was right, but Sam had proven in the last few years how capable of taking care of himself he truly was. And Dean…well, Dean had been taking care of himself plus one since he was four years old.
Sam stirred and John held his breath, pretending to watch the TV as Sam blinked awake, sitting up with a groan.
"Dad?"
"Yeah?" Sam squinted back at him, eyes still puffy hours later, but John was relieved to see that the scarlet patches from before no longer adorned his son's cheeks. He could only handle one sick kid at a time.
"Why aren't you with Dean?"
"I wanted to make sure you were okay." Sam frowned but didn't say anything as he pushed his way out of bed.
"Uh, where are my pants?"
"Drying. I had to wash them out in the sink. They were filthy." If Sam was surprised at the act of domesticity, he didn't say anything, just stumbled to his backpack in his t-shirt and boxers, pulling out another wrinkled pair of jeans.
"Why'd you let me sleep so long?" he said finally, flipping open the box of pizza and picking up a cold slice. John raised an eyebrow.
"You needed it, trust me."
"We should get back to the hospital," Sam said, the slice of pizza already half-eaten as he searched for his shoes. John clicked the TV off and sat up, his hands on his knees as he took a deep breath.
"Sam, we should talk."
"No, we should be with Dean."
"Sam."
It wasn't an order but a request, quiet but firm, and enough out of character that Sam paused.
"About what?" he said finally.
"You know what." Sam's responding laugh was too forced and disbelieving to be real.
"You want me to talk about my feelings? Fine. I'm scared to death, Dad. My brother who practically raised me is lying in a hospital bed. He can't see me, can't hear me, can't tell me where he's hurting or if he needs help. He might be dying and there's nothing I can do about it. So yeah, I'm a little upset and yeah, I'm a little scared. I'm sorry if that bothers you."
John cocked his head.
"You think you getting upset about Dean bothers me?" he asked. Sam had the decency to remove his gaze from his father's as his expression turned into one that resembled shame and embarrassment. He raised his arms slightly before letting them fall back to his sides.
"I don't know, Dad. Whenever I cried as a little kid, you always told me that soldiers don't cry."
The furious beating of John's heart was painful underneath his rib cage and he wondered if he'd ever be able to make up for all of the stupid things he'd said over the years. He resisted the urge to give in to the nauseous rolling of his stomach as the boy in front of him avoided his gaze.
"Sam, I'm sorry. You boys are the most important things in my life and I know I haven't acted that way. But I want you to know that it's true. I will never forgive myself for what happened to Dean. Never."
"I want to believe you, Dad, I really do, but how can I?" Sam said wearily. "Am I just supposed to accept that you're going to change all of a sudden? After all these years? I mean thanks for taking care of me before, but what about when you get wind of a hunt? What would you do right now if you got a lead on the demon?"
The answer was that John didn't know. Hunting was so ingrained in him, it was almost as if he was programmed to go after one thing and one thing only. But he hadn't been lying to Sam when he said that his children were the most important things. Sam sighed at the hesitation but he wasn't angry, just defeated at how right his father was proving him.
"Sam," he said again and this time it was more to the tune of begging, a rare plead was falling from John Winchester's lips. "Please remember I've lost your mother and I might be losing my son."
"What do you want from me?" Sam asked, shaking his head against his father's plea. "Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? Because I lost my mother and am losing my brother. So you're not the only one who's going through something here."
"No," John said. "No, you don't need to feel sorry for me. Sympathy doesn't change anything. It doesn't change anything and it can't bring anyone back from the dead." He hesitated then said, "But neither does anger. I get that now. I should have looked after you better. And I'm sorry for that."
"Fine," was all Sam could muster.
"I know it might take a while but I hope that one day you can look at me again. I don't want to lose the only family I have left." Sam remained silent, not out of anger but because he wasn't sure what to do with that. The last five minutes were the most sentimental he'd ever gotten with his father; it was new territory for both of them and Sam wasn't sure how to react. If he didn't forgive his father, he'd be labeled the jackass who couldn't get over the past. But at the same time, Sam wasn't quite ready to forget the last twenty years. For some reason, that seemed like it would be letting John off the hook too easily.
"Okay," Sam said and John raised his gaze from where he'd been staring at the floor. "I, uh, accept your apology." He fidgeted where he stood. "I don't know how things are going to go between us, a lot of crap has happened. But I'm sure we can work something out. You know, for Dean," he added at the end. "He's going to need both of us when he wakes up." John hesitated, not wanting to ruin the moment but not wanting Sam to carry on any delusions either.
"Sam, you have to accept the fact Dean's not out of the woods yet. I talked to the doctor yesterday after Dean's…fit and while he was optimistic about Dean's attempt to wake up, he was also realistic." The hazel eyes narrowed at John.
"What are you talking about?"
"Hell, I want him to pull through as much as you do but there's only so much the doctors can do. If Dean's heart decides to give out or if those wounds get infected…I just want you to be prepared."
"You want me to be prepared for my brother's death?" Sam asked flatly. John winced.
"I know it's an awful thing to consider but we do have to consider it. As much as we don't want to. I just don't want you getting your hopes up too much."
"He's going to wake up," Sam said. "He woke up before, he'll do it again. You'll see."
"Okay," John said, deciding to drop the subject go for the moment. He'd only just managed to get Sam not to completely hate him; now wasn't the time to poke the bear. "Alright, let's go see Dean."
A/N: Thoughts?