Chapter 53: Shut Up

A/N: There is a mention in this chapter of a book called Sophie's Choice. In the particular scene that is relevant, a woman in a concentration camp during the Holocaust is forced to choose which of her two children lives and which dies.

Also, the title is named after the song by Simple Plan of that name. It really does fit in. I had it on repeat the entire time I was writing this. I don't know why, I just love the song.

Dean didn't exactly jump in surprise when he heard the knock on the door twenty minutes later.

"Dean?" the voice called. "Are you in there?"

Dean took a nice long pause before answering. He had just finished stitching Sam's arm up a few minutes before, being as careful with the task as he had ever been, and considering the circumstances he thought he had done a pretty good job. Sam had only stirred once, and that was when Dean had yanked the glas out; the anasthetic apparently hadn't taken full effect, and he made a mental note to apologize profusely if it ever came up at a later time. After that incident, though, Sam had barely moved except for breathing, and that didn't lead to much conversation. Even though that meant Dean could concentrate more on the work, it also let his mind wander.

It also had made him even more pissed at his father.

"Are you in there?" John repeated when Dean didn't respond.

"That depends," Dean called back, pushing himself up from his seat. "Just how much did you do to help Sam try to run off on me? Be careful, now, you will be graded on this answer." He stood about a foot away from the door, waiting expectantly. There was a long pause on the other side of the door.

"Listen," John said cautiously. "Just let me in and we'll talk about this."

"Oh, sorry, nice try," Dean said coldly from the other side of the door. "I don't think so, dad. That's not how things like this go. Try studying more for next time."

"Dean, let me in," John demanded, his voice officially stating he wasn't screwing around.

"No," Dean repeated, just as stubborn. "I like this arrangement as it is."

"Dean, where's Sam?" John asked, genuine concern in his voice that Dean ignored.

"Like you care," he threw back, venom in his voice.

John almost audibly clenched his teeth. "Where is he?" he forced out, an edge of panic creeping in. Dean rolled his eyes and yanked the door open, putting on his best stony face.

John strode past him in a heartbeat, his eyes scanning the room feverishly. He wasn't an idiot; he knew Dean wouldn't have come back to the hotel unless he had found Sam or was about to collapse and die. He swallowed loudly when he set eyes on his motionless youngest son, his face going white.

"Is he..." he asked.

"He's unconscious," Dean assured him, stating the obvious. "I drugged him, so he'll be out for a couple of hours. It's just you and me now." John didn't ask any further questions about Sam's state, not wanting to ruin already shaky footing.

John continued looking at Sam's face, and Dean suddenly recalled his vision or dream or whatever it was when Sam had died, and John's distraught expression as he looked at Sam's dead body. He had never thought he was going to see his son again. And as dismayed as he was that the plan hadn't worked, Dean could see the relief written on his father's features.

"Why'd you do it?" Dean asked. John didn't answer at first. He looked like he was seriously thinking about it, and his hesitation only made Dean angrier.

"I just...thought it was the right thing to do," John answered quietly.

"He's your son," Dean prodded uncomprehendingly, and John bit his lip, a sign of confusion, of weakness he had said, that John had barely ever used. Dean was almost hoping there was some way, some magic answer that John had, some reason he had for doing what he had that would suddenly make it alright. There had to be an excuse; there always was with John.

"Yes," John answered. "He is. But I have to respect his wishes. There was nothing I could have done anyway--"

"Shut up," Dean said. He felt something snap inside him, a switch being flipped. He guessed this must be what it felt like to realize your idol wasn't perfect, to realize that Superman still had Clark Kent inside him, the nervous little guy that couldn't even ask out the girl he liked. That was what it was like realizing his father was just a person, not a warrior. Not even a good father. And because of that, Dean was mad at John, truly furious. For the first time, he felt like he understood why Sam had hated him all those years. He saw John Winchester the person, the one Sam had been seeing, not John Winchester the hero, the one he had been blinded with.

John froze in shock. "What did you say?" he asked calmly, as if Dean had suddenly sprouted spider legs out of his back and started crawling around the room instead of simply having a serious intervention. John had barely recovered in time; Dean's comment had thrown him off guard.

"I said shut up," Dean replied. "What the hell were you thinking? You were just going to sit there and let him run off?"

John ran a hand through his hair nervously, looking like he had definitely exoected this sort of response from Dean. For a moment it looked like he had something, something that would make it all better, that would explain what he had done perfectly. Instead, in his own defense he offered lamely, "It was his decision."

"Screw his decision!" Dean said loudly.

"I did what was best for all of us," John argued, and almost immediately looked like he knew he had phrased that statement the wrong way. He could tell he had only incenced Dean further.

"You were going to let him die," Dean hissed, wondering once more how he could have let someone like him be his role model. How could he have looked up to a man who was willing to let his youngest son die without even fighting for him? Without even saying a word? Without even showing regret?

"They weren't going to kill him," John said.

"They're just going to make his life a living hell," Dean added for good measure, and John ignored his comment like he always did. How could he not have noticed before how little John ever listened to him?

"There was still a chance we could snap him out of it. Dean, they practically had a knife to your throat." His tone was near pleading.

"I. Don't. Care," Dean said. "He's my baby brother. I've only ever had one real job my entire life and that was to protect him. If I can't even do that, what am I good for?" He shook his head. "If it comes down to who lives, me or him, it's going to be him. It's always going to be him."

John blinked a few times. "I think the problem is," he said, his voice placating, "that you both think the same in that respect, and it's almost like you're in a competition with each other sometimes." Dean rolled his eyes. "He knew what he had to do; he's been willing to for awhile. He's not five years old anymore, like you want to believe. He's not going to hang on your every word like he used to." Dean raised an eyebrow at the absurdity of such an accusation. John sounded more like he was trying to convince a father to let go of his son rather than a brother to his sibling. "He can make his own decisions."

"Where was that supportive attitude when Sam wanted to go to Stanford?" Dean asked casually. "You wanted him gone. You always have."

"That had nothing to do--"

"But it factored in a little bit, didn't it?" John responded with a simple 'shut up' glare, so Dean tried a different approach. "So hypothetically," he asked, "if he held a gun to his head and told you he wanted to kill himself, you'd just let him?"

John shook his head violently. "That's not what I--"

"He may not be five years old," Dean said angrily, "but he's still your son. You have a responsibility." He bit his lip, frustrated, "Not that you've ever taken--"

"What? John inquired.

"You've never been a father, to him or me. At least I remember when you were a little, but Sam never had a chance to know normal, to have a dad. You always thought he had to prove himself to earn your respect by being a hero, by being better than everyone else. And you were my hero, dad. I thought it made sense, because it seemed reasonable that you would know the right thing to do, but now I know it was all bullshit. Do you know what kind of grades that kid got?" He could tell by John's wounded expression that he had hit a raw nerve. "Honor Roll, every year. Best kid in his class. You should have heard the way his teachers talked about him. But you didn't. It was me that was in there every time you weren't." He looked at the ground, remembering. "And yet still I wasn't doing enough," he muttered, almost to himself. It wasn't even meant to be out loud, it just slipped, and he had to scramble to recover from it. "But that's not the point," he said. "He never learned he didn't always have to make his own decisions."

John took a deep breath. "I did the best I could," he said. "I knew what that demon could do to people. All that mattered to me was keeping you and Sammy safe. I couldn't let them get you, too. I did the best I could."

Dean considered taking John's side for about a split second before changing his mind. "I guess your best wasn't good enough, dad," he said, throwing the phrase John had used on Sam and him so often right back in his father's face. "God, why can't you just be a father for once instead of trying to be some badass warrior?"

"Sam doesn't need me anymore," John said, almost in denial. "He's made that perfectly clear." Dean saw him glance at Sam's unconscious form and followed his gaze. It was apparent even then that John was just making excuses, just like he usually did. That was all he ever did, come up with excuses. Excuses for why he treated his kids that way, excuses for why he left. Excuses for why he was such a fucking jackass. Dean marveled in how his point of view had changed in a few days.

"He does," Dean said. "Now more than ever. At least, he did need you." John looked up at Dean in surprise. "Dad, I need you gone by tomorrow morning." John smiled, as if it was all some sick joke.

"Dean, what are you talking about?"

"I want you to go, dad," Dean said. "Just for awhile, until I figure something out with Sam. I can't have him try to run off, and I don't need you--"

"You know I couldn't--" John started.

"But you did," Dean said, borrowing Sam's words from their earlier conversation. He glanced back at Sam's sleeping face, which looked peaceful for once; Sam very rarely looked at ease when he slept these days, but then again, he never had. He knew Sam wouldn't like how he was handling the situation, but then again, there were very few things Dean did that Sam did approve of. Dean had grown used to the disappointment that was always thrown his way from every direction.

"You haven't been here," Dean continued, and as hard as he tried to stop it, as usual, his efforts to calm down had the opposite effect. "You have no idea what's going on here, do you?"

"Well--"

"That was a rhetorical question!" Dean responded loudly. "You think this is something that's just going to blow over? You think you can just skip in, knock on their door, ask 'May I pretty please have my son back, and without permanent mental issues he'll have to deal with the rest of his considerably shortened life?' and expect them to do it?"

"I didn't--"

"Yes," Dean growled furiously, "you did. That's what you thought you were doing!" His voice had raised to a yell, and he could see John silently asking for him to keep his voice down; there were very thin walls in the hotel.

Well, if John wanted him to lower his voice, fine. He adopted the tone that always seemed to have a nice effect on people. He had never used it on John; he had never dared. Then again, John had never done anything to shatter Dean's faith in him like this. The spell was broken. John could see that, and it had severely shaken him. In an icy hiss, Dean continued, "But do you know what you were really doing?" John swallowed audibly. He was looking even more uncomfortable. "You were sending him off to die. You knew that and you still did it." He shook his head, filled with a disgust he rarely felt towards anyone.

"Do you have any idea," Dean said, forcing his voice to be a normal volume and not let his anger get the better of him, "what you've done to him over the years? On and on, all you do is fight. He's loves you, dad. He can't not, no matter what you do." Once more, he'd hit a nerve. John couldn't look at Dean or Sam. "Do you realize how many times you've said 'I hate you' to him?"

"And you've only said it once, right?" John retorted.

"He hated it," Dean continued, as if John had never said anything. "I was there every time you did. He would talk for hours, act like he hated you, everything you stood for. The truth was, he was just trying to give himelf an excuse not to admit it was killing him. He figured since you hated him, he should hate you, too. And I think he really did for awile there. But it was an excuse, and that was it." John took a deep breath, as if to steady himself so he could keep eye contact going.

"He always thought that you wished he'd never been born," Dean continued. "That you thought it was his fault mom died. And now that he found out it was all true, it's worse; he thinks he has to die for us to make it right." He shook his head. "I have spent two months trying to fix that, and you just told him to go off and do it!" Now John had to drop his gaze. "Well? What does the amazing John Winchester have to say for himself this time?"

"I did what I had to--"

"Oh, not this--" Dean groaned.

"--under the circumstances--"

"Stop it!" Dean yelled. "Shut up! For once in your life, stop denying everything you do! Stop acting like you were right when you weren't! Stop blaming things you've done on other people! I hate it!"

"Now you're just being--"

"You just loaded the gun and handed it to him!"

It was at that point John gave up trying to be unidue in his arguement and diverted to Sam's original tactic by quoting directly. "I had to choose whether to lose one of my sons or both of them!"

It didn't work.

"You son of a bitch," Dean muttered between his clenched teeth, seething. "You know what? No. That's an insult to son's of bitches everywhere and I liked grandma."

"Do you think I wanted to do that to him?" John said loudly. "No! But I can't lose both of you." His voice was almost begging. "I can't. I had to do this to save what I have left. I did it to save you."

"This is not Sophie's Choice, for god's sakes!"

John froze, breathing heavily. He knew there was nothing he could try that would work. He looked way too vulnerable to be the legendary John Winchester that Dean had practically worshipped. Now he just didn't get it.

"All my life," Dean said quietly, almost as an afterthought, "it's been about Sam, to keep him safe. That's all you ever told me when he was first starting on hunts. 'Take care of Sammy. That's your job. Don't mess up. Don't let him down. Don't let anything bad happen to him.' And I knew you would never forgive me if I ever let him die, or if I ever let any of those things get to him. How can you just all of a sudden change your mind about that? All of a sudden. the only thing you told me that mattered in this world means nothing to you."

"He does mean something to me," John defended.

"Did he tell you," Dean asked, trying to keep John's attention, "that he's dying?"

John swallowed, his face white, but the fact that he didn't look totally apphauled gave Dean the answer to his question.

"I..." John started. "He told me when he was about to leave. I didn't know from the beginning."

Dean nodded his head, opening his mouth, but he couldn't get the question out. He found himself suddenly terrified of the answer if he asked about a cure for Sam. Very little options were left, but he couldn't just give up on Sam. He felt if he spoke the words, he would be giving away his last shred of hope, putting that in John's hands, a place where he defnitely didn't want it to be at that time. He finally decided not to ask, but John answered anyway.

"I'm sorry," he said, and Dean felt the breath get choked in his throat. "There's nobody I know. I checked right after you left."

"You what?" Dean asked incredulously. He didn't get it; why wasn't John out looking for Dean, trying to stop him, if he was helping Sam?

"I can't keep up with your pace when you're in panic mode," John answered. "There was a chance you would find him and bring him back, so I figured I'd call..." He smiled humorlessly. "Well, I figured I'd call basically everyone I knew."

"And...nothing?" Dean choked out. It took everything he had to keep from throwing up right there, all over John. But he was going to be strong. The number one rule John had taught him was to always seem stronger than you are in situations where you need the leverage. In short, suck it up.

"Nothing," John said simply. "And I know you don't like the idea of sending him back--"

"No," Dean said, as if that closed the matter.

"They have the cure," John said.

"They'll kill him," Dean retorted.

"We managed last time," John said. "We pulled him out of it. He'll be different, but he'll be alive."

"No, he won't be alive," Dean spat. "You call that being alive? Spending your entire life trapped in your own body, watching yourself doing horrible things and knowing they're wrong but not being able to stop? Enjoying them, even? That's not being alive. That's being worse than dead to him."

"He can handle it. He's strong. He'll make it through. If he made it the first time---"

"He nearly died the first time! They almost killed him!"

"But he lived!"

"Get out," Dean said angrily. "Get the hell out of here!"

"What?" John asked, his mouth remaining slightly open in shock.

"What I told you earlier," Dean explained. "I want you out of here. I'll call you if anything happens, I promise, but you need to go."

"You can't keep me away from my son," John tried, frustrated already with his stubborn son.

"I thought you've made it clear enough you want him away from you many times in your life," Dean said, and John glared.

"You need--"

"No, I don't need you," Dean spat out. "I think I finally realize that for the first time in my life. You were my hero, dad. I don't know what happened, but I'm a big boy, and I've done a better job taking care of him than you have." He took anouther shaky breath. "I'm going to take care of him. I don't need your help. So, please, get the hell out." He met his father's furious gaze unhesitantly. "Get out!" he repeated.

"Fine," John said back in a forced calm tone, and yanked the door open, slamming it behind him.

It was then that Dean finally let out his breath. His legs gave out from under him, and he collapsed into the chair by the table. His head was spinning so much he felt like he had just ridden on the Teacup Ride at Disneyland three times.

"Jesus Christ," he hissed, dropping his head into his hands. He felt sick, truly sick for the first time in awhile. His hands shook as he rubbed his temples, the blood pumping through his veins so fast it couldn't be good for his health. He took deep breaths, but they never seemed to process and get to his brain, panicking him and making him feel even more helpless than he already did.

He hated feeling this way: totally, completely helpless. He hated not knowing what to do about Sam. He couldn't let him die, no matter what it took, but what was there left to do? What if what it took was just too much for them to handle? The only options he had weren't good, and the most likely one seemed to be simply sitting there and watching Sam die.

Suddenly, and uncontrollable burst of rage came forth, and Dean stood, chucking the knife in his boot that he had been nervously handling across the room, where it shattered the glass in one of the small picture frames hanging on the wall. He had hit it dead center, and it wobbled up and down in the wood as it lodged itself solidly in there. He kicked the chair as hard as he could for good measure, sending it toppling backward.

Closing his eyes for about a minute to calm himself down, he went to check on Sam, his entire body shaking. His brother looked basically the same, but his breaths seemed to be coming more laborously, and he had a fever that he certainly hadn't had before.

"Anywhere from twelve hours to two days," he remembered Sam to have told him. Had he been wrong? Was it too late already? Had Sam already started the downward spiral?

"Come on, Sammy," Dean coaxed, now understanding Sam's hesitation to go to sleep, his fear that he wouldn't live to see the morning. Dean at least wanted to see him, talk to him one more time, if worst came to worst. "Just make it through the night."

A/N: So today is my birthday! Yay! So I figured I'd update. Hope you enjoyed it, and please review!

Up Next: You will see, coming up, that I will be able to tell you less and less about the upcoming chapters. I will tell you this: Sam is going to get worse, much worse, there's going to be a big vision coming up soon that will reveal some of how this is going to end, and some normal sibling bickering, as usual. Plus, I finally get to have a fight scene where I can blow something up, which is something that I have been waiting for for like...ever:)

By the way, I've had a lot of people review and PM me asking if I'm going to kill Sam and asking for me not to. What makes you think I'm going to kill Sam? Just because he has the poison in him doesn't mean he's dead yet. Everyone is in danger in this story, and anyone could die. Oh, and what's with all the people who are like "Kill John. No one cares about him anyway" in their reviews? That's a little harsh, even though, yeah, he kinda does deserve it sometimes. But...he's Denny...poor Denny. :'(

Review, please! For Sammy! It'll make him feel better!