AN: As promised, here's another chapter! There would be a third but I got distracted. Oops. I'd love some feedback. Is John ooc? Whaddya think?

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When Sam woke again, it was again Dad at his side. He tried to squash the disappointment he felt that it wasn't Dean, feeling disloyal. There was also more than a hint of fear. What would Dad do and say? Dean had told Sam without words that he hadn't lost his brother's affection or support, but Sam had literally no idea what their Dad would do in the face of such abject weakness as a suicide attempt, aborted or not.

Sam tried to surreptitiously check his wrist, but Dad noticed the movement and gave a tiny, ironic smile. "No cuffs. You need the bathroom?"

It was an olive branch. Unexpected, but appreciated, and Sam had to swallow before answering. "Not yet. Maybe in a few." His voice was scratchy and he coughed a little trying to clear it.

Dad stood and tugged the curtain aside just far enough to let in enough sunlight to illuminate the room. Then he rummaged through some bottles on the nightstand. "Water or ginger ale? Or orange Gatorade?"

Sam licked dry lips. This felt unreal, like Dad should be yelling, or should be off on a hunt while Dean tended to Sam. "Water?"

"You need the calories," started Dad, then stopped himself, ran a frustrated hand over his hair, and brought over a bottle of water. It occurred to Sam that Dad didn't know what to do, a very foreign concept. Dad always knew what to do in any situation. The man was confidence personified.

This imposter Dad helped Sam sit up and waited quietly until the pain passed enough for Sam to take the water. "I can drink the other stuff if that's better…" Sam offered hesitantly after handing it back. Dad gave him an odd look, and Sam knew he was acting just as out of character as the older man. Sam cleared his throat, looked at the ceiling, cleared his throat again. Finally, he said, "Um. You can yell at me now. Call me…stupid, or selfish, weak or whatever. I'm feeling okay. I can take it."

Dad stared even harder, then suddenly huffed a small laugh. "I never thought I'd miss fighting with you, but I'm starting to think it was when we stopped yelling at each other that I started losing you."

"Maybe that's just how we communicate?" suggested Sam, and was relieved to see Dad smile slightly again. "But you didn't lose me, Dad. I…I won't again. I swear I won't." In his earnestness, Sam leaned forward, which pulled on his injuries hard enough to make him gasp. He was grateful for the strong hands that caught him.

"Easy, son," said John. The movement had brought him farther into the light, revealing heavy lines on his face, making him look much older than normal. I did that to him, Sam thought, and the realization, along with Dad's use of the term son made Sam's eyes prickle. "I don't want to yell at you," Dad continued. "Well, I do, but only because I can't stand the thought of you hurting yourself." He rubbed the line between his eyes and Sam just sat in silence, because what can you say to that? He was about to ask for another drink just to break the stillness when Dad stood up and began to talk and pace.

"Did I ever tell you about my buddy in Vietnam? The one I called Julius?"

Sam shook his head. Vietnam was on the list of things Dad refused to talk about.

"Little black guy from Detroit. I called him Julius as a joke, after Julius Erving, because he was maybe 5' 6". Skinny too. The name stuck, but he didn't get mad. He thought it was funny. And somehow this kid I had nothing in common with became the guy I was sharing black market beer with and who I trusted most to watch my back. He saved my ass a few times, too." Dad paused and tilted his back in thought.

"Well, Julius had nothing to go home to. His grandma raised him, no idea who his dad was and his mom was killed by a stray bullet on the street when he was too young to remember her. And his grandma died before he ever got drafted. Julius left school when he was 10 or 11 – he could hardly read, and life had done nothing but shit on him." Dad shook his head, an almost-smile of remembrance on his face. "But you know what? When we got pinned behind enemy lines, he was the only guy in the whole unit who never lost hope."

Dad's pacing had shifted from idle movement to controlled power. He stalked across the room like a pacing tiger. "I've thought about that a lot. It wasn't the guys with families back home that hung on the longest – it was him. What did he have to live for? If he survived the war, he was just going back to loneliness and poverty. I sort of asked him once."

Sam watched in fascination as Dad turned toward him. He didn't think he'd heard his dad say so much at one time since…forever.

"You know what he said, Sammy?" Sam just blinked and shook his head. He was intrigued. No way was he interrupting this.

"He said he had a plan. A way to make his neighborhood better. Maybe even all of Detroit. He had goals, and ideas, and something to keep his focus on. He had – " Dad opened and closed his fists in front of him, searching for the words he wanted. Sam suddenly recognized the gesture as one he himself used often. "He had a specific goal he was working toward, something he believed in, a very sharp focus on something beyond the war, beyond what he had to face every single day."

Dad paused uncharacteristically, brushing his hands on the front of his jeans. "Do you understand, Sammy?"

The nickname arrested something inside of Sam that even not his still-muddled mind could miss. "I think so, sir. Dad."

Dad's face was shut down again, but Sam thought he could guess at some of the emotions hidden in his eyes. "We'll focus on your training, make sure we're not going after just anything, but tracking the thing that killed your – that started the fire. Think you can use that?"

So many emotions and thoughts washed through Sam that he could hardly keep track of them. There was a brief flicker of anger. Why in the name of everything supernatural would Dad think that focusing harder on hunting could possibly help? But there was a trickle understanding, too. Focus, a goal, is what kept Dad going. Maybe it kept him alive. He was offering Sam the lifeline that had worked for him.

That led Sam to sadness. Until an idea hit him. What if a goal could help? But maybe a different goal. And maybe remembering Dean and Dad running right at a dragon, a physical manifestation of their love for him, would help Sam too. He'd leaned on Dean for so many years. Maybe, somewhat, he could start leaning again. He just hoped that Dean was still willing to prop him up.

Sam lifted his eyes to Dad's. Dad was staring at him with his x-ray vision on, like he'd been following the track of Sam's thoughts. Except now Sam knew that he could hide things from Dad. Still, Dad nodded once as if Sam had answered him aloud.

"Dad?" Sam hated how uncertain he sounded. He cleared his throat and spoke more firmly. "Hey, Dad, what happened to your friend Julius? Did he go back to Detroit and change things?"

Dad's eyes flickered. His words were reluctant, but beating around the bush was anathema to John Winchester. "He didn't survive the war." His eyes hardened. "And you almost didn't survive what you did out there." He stabbed a finger to the side at random, voice rising. "You said you changed your mind, right? Well it sure as hell better stay changed! Nobody hurts my boys – not even my boys. You aren't going to so much as take a piss alone for the next six months and if even a hint of a thought of hurting yourself comes into your head, you tell me or Dean or even Singer. You hear me?!" He was at full volume now. "And if you do try anything like that again, I will handcuff you and you'll stay in my pocket until you're 25. You understand?!"

It clocked with Sam – later than it normally would have – that while most people would have only heard the fury in Dad's voice, that there was something else there too. In Dean's voice, Sam might have thought it fear and/or love. He wasn't positive that was what Dad was feeling, but he knew that his father was looking out for him the only way he knew how. His voice was strong and even when he responded, "yes, sir."

Dad stared him down for another long minute, then relaxed minutely.

"Dad? Speaking of taking a piss…" And Dad almost almost smiled.

Dad was quiet when he helped a very sore Sam to the bathroom. To his horror, Sam didn't even have the strength to stand to pee, and by the time he was finished, Dad even helped him pull up his pants and stand to wash his hands. But since it was Dad and not Dean, there was no mockery. By the time they were back at the bed, Sam was hurting too much to care even if Dad wiped his ass. And by the time Dad had practically tucked him in, Sam had a nice buzzing sound in his ears.

"Sam? Sam?" Dad's tone indicated that he'd called more than once.

"S'rry," Sam mumbled, closing his eyes against the tearing pain in his side and the lesser throbbing in his head. This was getting old.

"Open your eyes and swallow these pills," ordered Dad. Knowing weakness wasn't option, Sam forced himself to open his eyes again and propped himself up on his elbows, pretending the action didn't make him dizzy with pain. He almost fumbled the pills Dad held out and dry swallowed them rather than admit that he couldn't hold the glass of water without spilling it.

"Get some sleep," said Dad, but Sam was already halfway there, too far gone to answer. As his pain and thoughts both dunked themselves in the ink of exhausted sleep, Sam could have sworn that a heavy hand brushed his hair off his forehead.

Thanks for trying, Dad, Sam thought sadly, and then didn't think anything for a long time.