---
"Sam, you know I have to go."
Sam sighed and nodded, forcing a smile, trying to convince himself his father had changed. He had, a part of him knew that, but another part of him would always harbor that fear of waking up without a father. John had spent so much of his life running from his problems, focusing instead on the bigger picture, the Demon, that it had become second nature. He'd said it himself - it was easier to turn off the phone and ignore it than face his sons, and know he would run anyway.
Two days since Dean had spoken, and if anything, he'd regressed. Not speaking, not moving, not doing a damn thing but staring and sleeping. The doctors had resorted, having been left no other choice, to insert a feeding tube. Dean had no protested, not even flinched.
Sam rubbed a hand over the stubble collecting on his chin and sighed again. "Just... keep in touch, okay?"
"Of course," John said. "I expect updates if anything changes. Even if it doesn't. Call."
Sam forced a smile and nodded.
John fixed him with an intense stare, then half smiled himself. "I never pictured the reunion to be quite like this."
Sam felt any resolve he'd built up start to crumble.
I will not cry, I will not cry, he told himself. Especially not in front of Dad.
"I don't think any of us did," he offered lamely. "I don't think Dean meant for it to happen...ever."
John's eyes turned sharp. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing," Sam said quickly. "I just..."
Under his father's piercing gaze, he squirmed.
"Son," John prodded.
"Tell me you missed those scars on his wrists," Sam said softly, unblinking.
"No..." John sighed. "I tried to excuse them. Some spells, rituals, call for human blood. I had hoped..."
Sam looked down at his worn shoes, and blinked rapidly.
"Sam, whatever the problem, we'll work it out, I swear," John said, the paragon of a perfect father in that moment. "It's gonna take time, but we've beat a hell of a lot worse."
Sam smiled absently; it was true, they'd overcome worse odds more often than most people washed their laundry.
"Okay, Dad," he said, looking up and squaring his shoulders. "You're right."
"I'll call you as soon as I get there," John promised, as if he knew his son's unconscious fears.
Sam nodded and took a deep breathe.
John reached out suddenly and clasped his hand, staring into his son's eyes, and promised, "He'll be okay."
"Yeah," Sam agreed, squeezing his father's hand. "He will."
John said goodbye then, glancing once down the hall where his first born lay unresponsive, then disappeared down the stairwell, leaving Sam alone, again.
He sighed, and headed for his brother's room, dread gnawing at the pit of his stomach. Somehow, having his father here had helped. Of course it had helped. His father could take over the roll of protector, the one who had to answer all the doctor's important questions and make all the hard decisions. His father had given him support, someone to sit with, to hold Dean's hand and watch the clock with.
Now he was alone, again.
The sudden chirping of his phone startled him, sounding loud in the empty hallway. He answered quickly, to cut out the noise.
"Hello?"
"Hey, gorgeous," a perky voice sounded.
"Ash!" he said, immediately feeling a weight lift off his chest.
"How's it going?" she asked, her voice serious now.
"Dad just left," he said quietly, ducking inside the waiting room so he wouldn't disturb anyone, nurses and patients alike. "I'm kind of scared to head back to that room alone."
There was silence on the other end of the phone before her hesitant voice came back.
"Sam... when are you going to be home?"
His stomach sank.
"I don't know, babe, I want to be there, you know I do," he said. "But I can't just leave Dean here."
"Look, he left you for what, three years? He didn't want you then, Sam, just because he's hurt doesn't mean you suddenly owe him something," she said quietly. "I mean, it's wrong of him to suddenly show up and it's like your presence is demanded halfway across the country from your life, your home."
Home is a black muscle car, he thought without hesitation. Home is hotel rooms and Dad and Dean.
Out loud, he said, "He almost died, Ash!"
"I know, Sammy, but -"
"It's Sam," he said. "And he's family."
He hung up, forcefully shoving the phone back into the pocket it came from, breathing heavily, teeth clenched. He would call her later, when he'd calmed down, he reasoned. Because right now...
Angrily, he stood up and burst out of the waiting room, fuming.
How could she even say that? He knew she was just upset at his sudden absence, but that gave her no right to say those things about his brother.
His brother.
Sam suddenly felt like crying.
His shell of a brother.
Outside the door to that shell's room, he inhaled a deep, cleansing breath, and psyched himself up for another rousing night of sleeping in an uncomfortable chair, praying dawn would bring a change.
He opened the door -
- and forgot to breathe out.
The bed was empty, the sheets rumpled, IV and oxygen tube laying on the sheets along with a few bright red specks of blood.
Spinning on his heel, he ran to the nurses station.
"Terri!" he said, speaking to the young nurse sitting at the desk.
The red-head looked up, startled. "Yeah?"
"Where'd they take Dean?" he panted.
"Take?" she questioned, her brow furrowing. "Nowhere, he's in his room."
No, Sam thought. He's not.
Dean was gone.
---
He remembered every second of his escape - teetering on shaky legs from the hospital, all stealth and shadow, pausing once on the second floor landing to empty the contents of his stomach - minimal - from exertion. The feel of stitches tearing and skin parting was one he was familiar, though not yet comfortable with, and easily ignored. The dizziness that surrounded him was only a deterrent from pausing, because one moment to rest and he knew he would not have the strength to get back up.
He remembered the cab, sitting in front of the hospital as if fate had placed it there for his convenience. The driver looked back with a bored expression when he slid into the back seat, as if half dead people in stolen hospital scrubs asked for rides all the time. He rasped out the directions he'd memorized, and sat stiffly against the seat, watching the small town pass by. When they got to the hotel where his brother and father - up until today - had been staying. His heart swelled with relief at the sight of his baby parked in the far end of the lot, and he told the cabbie to wait, that he'd be back with money.
He entered the hotel room easily, pretending to stagger the short walk to the door and fumble with the keys, so no one would know he was picking the lock. It was easy, and he slipped inside as if he belonged there, noting that his belongings were there, neatly stacked on a chair by the dresser. A quick inventory told him nothing was missing, though he didn't need to guess that it had been rifled through.
He dressed as quickly as his injuries allowed, and paused to steal his brother's knit beanie from his bag. Pulling it low over his too-long hair, he added sunglasses, and swallowed a dry laugh. He looked too much like a celebrity trying to fly beneath the paparazzi's radar, but it seemed to do the trick. He walked quickly to the car, and pulled out into the street, passing the yellow cab as he went.
The driver never looked twice.
He drove for as long as he could stand - exactly ten hours and twelve minutes. Somewhere outside Kentucky, he stopped, booked a room, and stayed there for the next month. A few days into his recovery in that tiny room, his fever spiked, and nearly killed him.
The events of his escape were as clear as day to him, but that month was a blur. His phone never rang, or if it did, he wasn't awake enough to hear it.
After that month, he packed up, and moved on, with twenty pounds lost, and more scars than he could count.
