So, they'd called the emergency services. They'd stomped out potential fires where smoldering mud had caught the carpet. They'd seen Colby into an ambulance and they'd driven Michael and Andrea to the hospital, and Sam had adapted scripts from his stock list of BS explanations for the benefit of the local authorities and the people who'd been taking care of Colby. They were done here. There was nothing left but the awkward conversations, confessions, rationalizations and appeals of the grief ravaged family, all of which had nothing to do with Sam and Dean. That was personal stuff between the victims; it was none of their business.
So why were they still here? Why were they still haunting the corridors of the hospital, hovering at the periphery of these sad rooms and the tragedy within? What was Dean waiting for?
Dean took a sip of coffee, watching the room where Andrea and Michael sat with their father. "How did you get to the house so quickly?" he asked Sam as an idle aside.
Sam hesitated. "I was already on my way when you called," he admitted.
Dean raised questioning eyebrows.
"I had a bad feeling about Colby," Sam explained.
"So – what? You're psychic now?"
Sam chose to ignore the question. "We should go, Dean," he urged . . . again.
"I just want to make sure they're OK before we leave," Dean insisted.
OK how? How were any of them going to be OK again after all that had happened? They were alive. They were as OK as they were ever going to be.
Sam breathed a quiet, frustrated sigh. "Are all families this fucked up?" he wondered out loud. "Two women dead, two boys without mothers, friends find out they're brothers and, now, who knows if they'll ever even be able to talk to each other again . . . and all because one guy couldn't keep his dick in his pants!"
Dean turned his head to survey Sam for a few moments then returned his attention to the far room and took another sip of his coffee. After another beat he responded quietly, "you break rules, you know, Sam. You break laws. You do it all the time."
Sam opened his mouth to speak but Dean forestalled him.
"I know. You do it for righteous reasons, and that's fine. But you think that gives you the right to be self-righteous about the rules other people break. People are human, Sam. They have feelings, and feelings are complicated. People make mistakes. You should have more compassion for those of us who aren't as perfect as you are."
Sam turned and stared at the honest face of this man who had never done anything irredeemable in his life, and wondered in what reality he imagined he was less perfect than Sam.
Dean presently became aware that Sam was staring at him and returned a questioning look.
"I'm not perfect," Sam told him. "If I was, I wouldn't need rules." He turned and walked away.
Dean didn't have much time to reflect on Sam's comment as Andrea and Michael came out of their father's room at that moment, Michael turning up the corridor toward Colby's room and Andrea heading toward Dean. He nodded to her as she approached.
"Is your father feeling better?" he asked.
"The doctors say he'll make a full recovery," she acknowledged. "Colby, too. They're going to be fine. Thanks to you and Sam"
"Hey. It's what we do." As he said the words they kind of echoed in his head: this is what we do.
She took a deep breath. "We've asked Colby to come and live with us. We've talked about it, and we all agree we want him to stay with us . . ." She hesitated. "Colby's thinking about it."
"Oh . . . right."
"Well, it's . . . he has a lot to process at the moment."
Dean nodded. It would take Colby a while to absorb everything that had happened . . . but once he'd had time to reflect . . . after all, the alternative . . . "I'm sure he'll come round."
She returned a hopeful nod, thanked Dean again and they parted company. And maybe Sam was right and it was time to leave now. Maybe this was as good as it got. Dean finished his coffee and tossed the cup into a waste bin then he headed up the corridor Sam had taken toward the car park, but half way along he spotted Michael sitting on a bench outside Colby's room. The kid was staring dejectedly at a book he was holding limply in his hands. As he drew nearer Dean recognized it a copy of The Two Towers, the volume Michael had been reading to Colby before.
"Hey," Dean greeted the kid as he reached the bench.
Michael didn't look up.
"You brought that to read to Colby?" Dean asked as a conversation starter.
Michael nodded.
"Good choice. Lord of the Rings: my favorite of all time!"
Still no response..
"You're not going in there?" Dean asked, nodding toward Colby's room.
"He won't talk to me," Michael whispered. "Don't blame him. I'm the reason his mom's dead."
Dean sucked his lower lip through his teeth and deliberated for a few moments then he laid a consoling hand on Michael's shoulder as he turned decisively into the room.
Colby was as monosyllabic as his brother. Dean found him propped up in bed, red-eyed, staring out of the window.
"How are you feeling? Still sore?" he asked, thumbing idly through a few of the books and comics that lay neglected around the room.
Colby shrugged.
"Michael's outside," Dean ventured, but he wasn't really surprised when he didn't get an answer. Instead the boy turned accusing eyes on him.
"You're not from social services," he stated.
"No," Dean acknowledged. "That was BS. You really should have checked my ID." He grinned sheepishly. "It was a Blockbuster's card."
The kid wasn't amused. "What about all that stuff about your mother? Was that BS, too?"
The grin dropped from Dean's face. "No, that was true." There was a silent pause and then Dean started in again. "I hear the Kellys want you to go live with them," he said.
Colby turned his face toward the window once more.
"You were worried you'd have to go into care," Dean persisted. "Going to live with them would be better, wouldn't it?" When the boy didn't answer he added "they're your family, Colby."
"Mom was my family!" the boy snapped, "and he made the thing that killed her! He made it!"
"He didn't know, Colby. He didn't mean for any of this to happen. He just wanted his own mom back." Dean carefully cleared a space at the bottom of the bed and sat down on the edge. "If you thought there was any way you could bring your mom back, wouldn't you want to try? I know I would."
Colby continued to stare out of the window.
"So . . . what? Your're never going to talk to him again? You don't want to see him again? Ever? Is that really what you want?"
Colby's lips trembled. His nostrils flared and tears started in his eyes.
Thought not. "You've gotta forgive him, Colby."
At last the boy turned and looked at Dean as tears trickled down his cheeks. "I don't . . . I don't know how . . ."
"A tiny, tiny bit at a time. But you don't do that by avoiding him. You have to see him, talk to him. It'll be hard at first, but it'll get easier." Dean assured him. "Look, you're mad at him. I get that. He gets that. So be mad. Just, don't be a bitch about it." Dean stood up and handed Colby a box of tissues, and as the kid blew his nose Dean combed a sympathetic hand through the boy's unruly mop of hair. Colby glanced up and they shared a moment of understanding, then Dean turned and left the room.
As he passed the bench outside Dean caught Michael's attention and directed a significant nod back toward Colby. Michael stared at Dean then half stood, glancing doubtfully between Dean and the room but after another encouraging nod from Dean, he picked up the book and went to join his brother.
Dean didn't listen to the ensuing conversation but he watched from a discreet distance as they exchanged a few sentences and, at length, Michael took a seat next to the younger boy's bed, opened the volume and began to read. And Dean's lips twitched into a relieved and satisfied smile as he turned and headed out to the car park.
.
Sam was waiting for him outside, leaning against the driver side door of the Impala. He directed a questioning look at Dean as he approached.
"I think they're gonna be OK," Dean told him.
"Really?"
"Well, at least they're all talking to each other. That's a start."
Sam nodded. He was studying Dean very carefully. "Are you gonna be OK, Dean?"
Dean actually thought about it, and he was surprised at his answer. "Yeah, I think so," he said. "I mean . . . I'm still . . . you know . . ." He grimaced. "But I think I kind of get it now . . . why we're doing this. I mean, I figure our families are screwed to hell, but maybe we can help some others. Makes things a little bit more bearable. You know?"
Sam nodded thoughtfully. He seemed to be absorbing what Dean was saying, as if he hadn't thought about it before. Then he looked up and looked very seriously into Dean's eyes. "Dean . . ." he began and, for a moment, Dean thought he was on the point of some stunning revelation, but then he looked away and when he looked back he just said "you know we're gonna find your dad, right?"
Dean nodded. "Yeah, I know," he agreed quietly then, more briskly, he added "But in the meantime . . ." he fished into his pocket for the car keys, tossed them in the air and caught them again. "I'm driving." He gave Sam a meaningful look and waited. After the briefest hesitation Sam straightened up and moved around to the passenger side of the car, and Dean opened the door and dropped into the driver seat sporting a slightly self-satisfied smirk. As he gunned the engine he pushed the waiting tape into the slot of the cassette player, and Brian Johnson's familiar dulcet tones accompanied him as he took the Impala out onto the road:
Back in black 'Cause I'm back
I hit the sack
I've been too long I'm glad to be back
Yes I'm, let loose
From the noose
That's kept me hanging about
I keep looking at the sky
'Cause it's gettin' me high
Forget the herse 'cause I'll never die
I got nine lives
Cat's eyes
Usin' every one of them and running wild
Yes, I'm back
Well, I'm back
Yes, I'm back
Well, I'm back, back
(Well) I'm back in black
Yes, I'm back in black
.