Author's notes: Something tells me I'll get into trouble with this one. Please, be gentle...
Chapter 12
The coffee wasn't helping. It wasn't strong, it wasn't good, it was dark colored dishwater that tasted like nothing.
Flicking the plastic cup into the next waste bin John rubbed his temples. The splitting headache had been the first thing to welcome him this morning, closely followed by the recollection of the last hours and the reason of the marching band in his skull.
He remembered stumbling out of the hospital after they had revealed Dean's condition to him the evening before. Remembered a bar, a lot of heavy stuff in bottles, his arduous and futile attempt to drown the reality.
The first thing he had done this morning was return to the hospital. Sobbing and swearing on his way here, cursing himself for losing it like this, for leaving Dean alone. Begging for him to be still alive because he didn't know what to do if he'd return to his eldest room to find him gone.
But Dean had been still there, dark lashes resting on stark white cheeks, those ridiculously long lashes John loved so much because it was a feature his eldest had definitely inherited from him. The goddamn machine was still breathing for him, the goddamn heart monitor was still indicating that his kid had not given up while John had been busy kicking his own lights out with too much booze.
Dean had survived the night. Much to the doctors' surprise. And somehow John felt the crazy urge to ball his fist and secretly hiss a 'That's my son!'.
He walked up to the giant windows. The hospital lobby had almost become a sanctuary to him. Whenever he was asked to wait outside by the hospital staff because they had to do whatever they did with Dean, he came down here. Whenever he had the feeling he was suffocating in that room with all those beeping and whooshing machines, he fled down here. Only to regret it the moment he would leave the elevator because of the fear for his child.
It was still snowing. The blizzard hadn't retreated. No way in hell would Sam be able to fly here in that storm. The kid was stuck at that Airport in Detroit, left with the bad news John hadn't been able to keep for himself. Wasn't that just fantastic.
His cell phone rang and he jerked violently.
Probably Jim, ready to either tear him a new one for throwing around blasphemies. Or try to comfort him, dump some new empty phrases and catchwords to get him back on the faith track again.
Or maybe Sam, pissed like hell because of the weather and the whole fucked up situation.
Pulling the ringing device from his jacket, John frowned at the number. Nebraska area code? How many people did he know in Nebraska? Maybe someone who needed help?
"Sorry pal, got my own problems at the moment…" he mumbled, thumb hovering over the button with the tiny red phone symbol.
Something kept him from pressing it. And seconds later his thumb moved to the other button.
"Hello?"
"John? Wow. I didn't think I'd reach you that easily."
John raised his eyebrows. "Ellen?"
"Yeah, it's me. Sorry, you don't know this number, right? I'm calling from the Roadhouse."
Images of the old little dive flashed up in his mind. "So the thing is still standing?"
"Hey, mind your tone, Winchester. It's actually booming so you can stow all your remarks right away."
"Okay, okay." John leaned against the window pane. It felt good to talk to Ellen after all those years in silence. John had accepted Ellen's decision to sever all contact to him. He had been sad. But he had accepted it. And when she had called him a few months ago, needing help with a case, he had been glad.
Their relationship was still far from what they've had before. And they were constantly walking on eggshells around each other. But talking was a start.
"What can I do for you, Ellen?"
"Actually I wanted to ask you the same question."
"Meaning?"
There was a pause and a sigh. "You know I'm a mother, right?"
"I've noticed." Oh, come on. That wasn't happening.
"Damn John, can we skip this game of cat-and-mouse? How is he?"
The Winchester clenched his jaw. "That's just perfect", he growled, "Anyone else who knows about Dean? Do you have a bulletin board in your bar?"
"Would you calm down? I talked to Jim and he told me. Not willingly, before you start ranting again. And for your information – he's worse than you when it comes to worming anything out of him."
John didn't answer. He was about to tell her that she should mind her own business. That his son and his family and his life and way to handle things was nothing she had anything to say about.
But then, she was just worried. She was a mother. Had a child to raise, too, knowing full well what was out there.
"He's bad. Actually he wasn't supposed to survive the last night." There was a sharp intake of breath at the other end and a whispered 'My God…'. John could only grit his teeth at the mention. "But he did and I'm clinging to that tiny ray of hope as hard as I can."
Who was he convincing here? Ellen? Or himself?
"That's…terrible. I'm so sorry..." It was almost a whisper. Ellen was truly shocked, so much John could clearly hear. He tried to recollect when she had seen the boys the last time. It was a long time ago at least.
"What about Sam? Is he okay?"
Right. Ellen didn't know about Sam's new way of life.
"He's fine. He wasn't with us when it happened." No need to elaborate this issue.
"How did he take it? Your boys are pretty close, aren't they. Must have been a shock for Sam."
John remembered Sam's reaction. It had been as fierce as he had thought it would be. But it had made John feel low nonetheless. As if Sam's pain had multiplied his own.
"It was."
"And what about you? How are you?"
"What kind of question is that?" He frowned. "How do you think I am?"
There was another sigh.
"Well, let me tell you how I think you are. You are about to tell me that you're okay, that you're fine, that Dean is going to pull through this because he's tough, a Winchester out and out. Then you're going to change the subject or you're going to hang up because you don't know how to handle that big fat wave of emotion that builds itself up at the horizon."
John cringed. Was it possible that this woman knew him that well?
"So, why did you ask then?"
"Maybe because I had the hope you'd talk to me in honesty and sincerity, John Winchester. I hoped that maybe you'd accept my offer to help you."
Closing his eyes, John ran a hand over his face. "What in the world could you do to help me, Ellen? What do you want to hear from me? Huh? That I'm devastated? Running on empty? Scared shitless because I'm losing my family, first Mary, now my children?"
"What do you mean, losing your children? Is Sam..."
"Never mind. Sam's fine. He's not here right now and do you wanna know what's the strangest part of that fact? I just can't decide whether that's a good or a bad thing. Because if he'd be here, I know I'd try to wear my game face, show him that hard, strong facade I want him to see. But at the same time it would be so damn impossible to hide all the pain and fear, it would destroy me."
John stopped and swallowed before he added in a whisper: "But to not have him around...is destroying me as well."
He bit his lip. So he had opened up. Had let another person in beside his good friend Jim. And it felt damn good. To open up the floodgates. To let it all out. Not fearing to get laughed at for being a whiny little wuss.
Because Ellen was a mother. She knew how fear for the own child felt. How it ate you alive.
And she was a friend. One he had feared he had lost years ago.
"There's something going on between the two of you, am I right? Sam and you? The hunting life still doesn't agree with him?"
"Yeah, but...no offense, right now it's not..."
"It's okay, it's okay. Not a good time, I can imagine."
A silence occurred. For a strange second the Roadhouse bar appeared before John's inner eye, with all the liquor in rank and file, the strongest stuff he was yearning for right now.
"How about I drive up to you?"
The mental picture of all the imaginary bottles bursted.
"What?"
"Get out. Sit in my truck. Fire the engine up. Drive up to wherever you are. In case you want to reveal where Dean and you are."
Funny how everyone wanted to bear him company. As if it would make him feel better. As if if would make Dean better. For all John knew his son would shut down further with all the people in his room, talking to him, touching him. Dean hated to be hurt. And he hated to be helpless. Having Ellen and Jim and God knows who bustling around him, seeing him like this, it wouldn't suit him well.
"No. You have a bar to run."
"Geez, John, don't you think I have my ducks in one row here? It's no problem."
And all that emo talk? It was hard enough to keep a cool head while talking over the phone. To look those people in the eyes...no way.
"No."
"No?"
"No." John let out a tired sigh. "Listen, I really appreciate your help and it's...I don't need anyone by my side." Except Dean. I'd give anything to have him around, joking, smiling, talking to me. "I don't WANT to have anyone by my side."
Ellen was a friend. He hoped she'd understand. Another silence. For a second John feared his words had been to harsh.
"Well, okay then. If that's your wish I'm going to respect it. But I want you to promise me something."
He exhaled. Sharp, but quiet.
"What would that be?"
When Ellen answered, her tone had lost the challenging, playful tone. Suddenly she sounded soft, sad, almost fragile.
Like a mother.
"Tell Dean that we're waiting for him. Tell him that here's a bottle of ice cold beer with his name written on it and I want to be the one clinking glasses with him as soon as he's released. I'm counting on him."
Once again John had to close his eyes to block out the pain, only to be assaulted by images of his moribund son. The evening before the accident. When they had shared the last beer they had in their fridge, watching TV together.
"I'll tell him." He cursed his breaking voice. Cursed the raging snow outside. Cursed the world itself.
"I don't want to hang up now, you know?" There was something resembling a laughter. But it wasn't a genuine one. It was desperate.
"Go, sell some hunters some booze. So they can free this fucking planet from some more nasty sons of bitches." He tried to let it sound light and cheery. Turned out to be a pretty pathetic attempt.
A sniff. A slight cough from the other end.
"Alright, alright. Call me, ya hear? If there's something to tell, call me."
John nodded, forgetting that Ellen couldn't see it.
When he turned and saw Dean's doctor approach him, he gripped his cell like a lifeline once again, clenching his jaw.
He couldn't do this. Please, no.
To be continued...
