Summary: The members of the Winchester family learn to deal with the ever-increasing risks of their lifestyle.
A/N: So I think this is the first of three parts, which focuses on Sam. There will be subsequent parts that show how Dean and John both deal with life-threatening injuries on the job. After seeing how Sam and Dean reacted in "Faith" to Dean's injury, it made me wonder how they first became introduced to the real perils of hunting. And so I wrote this. A thousand thanks and hugs to my wonderful beta, Cati. I can hardly remember writing without her meticulous and well-thought out responses. I never would have done this without you. You really do rock my face off:)
Disclaimer: (wow, I actually remembered one this time) Trust me, I know that I don't own this stuff...
Lessons in Mortality
Part One: Never Follow Blindly
The dirt road was pitted with potholes from years of erosion and overgrown with vegetation. A dark thicket lined the shoulder, and the fullness of the fall leaves obscured much of the moon's light.
John drove without emotion, his eyes fixed fully on the road as the car bumped slowly along. Occasionally, he glanced in the rearview mirror, watching his sons. Dean sat up straight, his face stoic as he stared at the passing trees. At 14, Dean had successfully passed through puberty, and was becoming more and more like a man every day. His voice had changed and his body had begun to fill out. His very stature exuded maturity and discipline.
Sammy was still the consummate ten-year-old. He bounced in his seat, legs swinging back and forth restlessly. He seemed to be a bundle of barely contained energy, his eyes trailing from the side window to the front seat to the sagging roof of the car and back again. Every so often, he would glance at his older brother, looking for an opportunity for interaction.
The car jarred, hitting a particularly vicious pothole. John turned his eyes back to the road, gauging just how much farther they had to go. He had made this drive before, but only during the day, and it seemed interminably longer in the stillness of night.
"Are we there yet?" Sammy's voice broke the silence. He knew how much his father hated this question, but it seemed like they'd been driving forever. He wouldn't be surprised if they were in the next state by now.
"Soon," John replied shortly.
The answer did little to appease Sam's restlessness. He turned his attention back to Dean. He paused, tentative in his next move. "Dean?"
Dean's gaze turned tiredly to his brother. "Yeah?"
"We're going to miss the show tonight."
"Which show?"
"The one with Superman."
Dean rolled his eyes. "You're the only one who likes that one, Sammy."
"Uh-uh," Sam said contrarily. "You watch it too."
"We only have one TV."
"You said you thought Superman was the coolest."
"Sammy, you're full of crap," Dean said with a sigh.
"Am not."
"Are too. Only babies like Superman."
"I'm not a baby," Sam protested.
With a grin, Dean knew he had found his brother's hot button. "You like Superman."
Sam looked sulky. "Doesn't mean I'm a baby."
Dean poked his brother. "Baby."
Sam poked back. "Am not."
Before either could continue, their father cut them off. "We're here."
The car slowed as it pulled into a clearing. A large house loomed in the shadows. In the glare of headlights, the house looked dilapidated, the windows sagging and broken out, the siding chipped and warped. The large, wraparound front porch had fallen into severe disrepair. In all, its appearance made little impression on the Winchesters.
The boys were silent as John parked the car and got out. He opened the trunk as the boys fumbled out the backseat.
"Hey, Sammy, wouldn't you love to have Jennifer Fisher here with you?" Dean asked, grinning. "Girls dig guys with guns, you know." Dean nodded knowingly.
Sam crinkled his nose. "Why would I want that?"
"Because Jennifer Fisher's so pretty. Long blonde hair, right, Sammy? Blondes have way more fun."
Sam rolled his eyes. "I don't even like Jennifer Fisher."
"But she likes you," Dean taunted. "She practically follows you home from school. I see her."
"She does not."
"Sammy's got a girlfriend, Sammy's got a girlfriend."
Sam moved to jump on his brother, but their father's voice stopped them both.
"Okay, so let's review here," he said and the boys fell into line in front of him. "We're dealing with a spirit. The body's in the basement, and we'll have to burn the bones. But we also need to find a book. It should be in the library."
"How will we know which one it is?" Dean asked the obvious question.
His father shot him a look and continued his briefing. "The book should be filled with letters. The book is always a part of the stories related to attacks--most of the vitcims are found in the library--so I think that book is another source of the spirit's power. We need to destroy it, too."
"Sounds easy enough," Dean said while Sam rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.
"All you have to do is find the book and burn it when you do. We can't be all together on this one. It's going to be very aware of what we're doing, so we've got split up and be quick. I'll be in the basement with the bones."
"No problem," Dean said, nonchalantly. "I've got my handy Zippo ready for action."
"Don't take any risks," John warned. "I want you to go straight upstairs, find the book, and then get out. Nothing more."
"We could come down and help you out," Dean offered.
"Nope. In and out for you two."
"You gonna give us the rock salt?" Sam asked.
"Hopefully you won't need these," John said, handing a gun to each of the boys. "But have them ready in case she comes after you."
Dean checked to be sure his gun was loaded correctly, prompting Sam to do the same. "Nothing we haven't done before."
"Remember to be aware--look for the signs--flickering lights, a drop in temperature-"
"We know the drill."
John looked ready to lecture more, but he stopped, gauging his sons. They both stood, guns in hand, ready and able. He knew they had both tackled things more difficult than this, but he also knew that mistakes were not an option.
"Watch out for each other, and, I promise, you'll be just fine."
Dean grinned. "We always are."
Nodding, John concluded, "The library is on the second floor, west corner. Meet me back here when you're done. And be careful."
Dean nodded back, secure and confident, and Sam offered him a wide smile. "You too, Daddy."
00000000000
Two steady beams darted up the stairway as the Winchester boys climbed up the old steps.
"I'll bet Jennifer would love to see you like this," Dean teased quietly.
"Shut up, Dean," Sam hissed back, following Dean closely.
The beams danced wildly over the tearing wallpaper, catching odd reflections off the dusty photos on the wall.
"Jennifer and Sam, sitting in a tree-"
A sudden breeze came over them and their flashlights flickered, silencing and stilling them both. They stood frozen for a moment, guns ready, but the air was unmoving again and their lights stayed on.
"She's around," Dean whispered.
Sam prodded his brother. "We'd better hurry."
They ascended the rest of the stairs quickly and soundlessly, then moved through the hallways with the stealth of seasoned hunters. As they neared the western end of the house, Dean pushed open the doors carefully, trying to find the library. At the end of the hall, the door finally opened to a room lined with shelves. With a slight nod, Dean motioned Sam inside.
The boys flashed their lights about the room, realizing suddenly that the task ahead of them was not as easy as they anticipated. The shelves covered the walls from floor to ceiling, each shelf filled to capacity with books.
"That's a lot of books," Dean said.
Sam's eyes were wide in wonder. "I would love a room like this," Sam replied, a hint of awe coloring his voice.
"Yeah, well, no time for reading now. We're looking for the book with the letters."
Sam raised his eyebrows. "Sounds easy."
Dean grinned at him. "Nothing the Winchesters can't handle."
The boys began in opposite directions, scanning the shelves carefully, looking for something distinctive.
Sam let his fingers trail along the shelves, leaving lines in the dust as he searched. Dean was across the room, obscured in the darkness.
"We should just light the whole thing on fire," Dean said.
Sam let the flashlight trail up and down the walls. "That'd be a waste."
"This is a waste," Dean countered. "No one could ever read all these books in a lifetime."
"I'd like to try."
"You're a freak."
"Am not."
"Freak."
"Dean-"
"Hey, look, I think I got it!" Dean called abruptly.
Just as Sam turned to look, something stopped him. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he shivered violently. He gasped, spinning around as his flashlight blinked out. "Dean!" he yelled as something blurred passed him.
Startled, Sam raised his gun, tracking the rapidly appearing form as it crossed the room, heading straight for his brother. He watched his brother turn, but it was happening too fast. The spirit stood between Sam and his older brother, blocking Dean from Sam's vision. But Sam remember his father's warnings about ghosts--spirits were not solid targets, never fire when someone is directly behind one. Sam steadied his gun as best he could, high on the spirit as to avoid his brother, and fired.
The shot went wide and Sam watched as the spirit slammed Dean into the shelves. "Dean!" Sam screamed now.
The spirit seemed attracted to the noise, and turned back toward Sam. He could see her now, the wildness of her ghostly blond locks and the enraged look on her translucent face. He was shaking, eyes wide and terrified. His arm was numb and his hand trembled as he aimed straight at her this time. His finger twitched and the gun fired again, and he hit his target.
The spirit vanished with an angry hiss, but Sam knew it was only a quick fix. He tried to gather himself, but the spirit rematerialized too quickly. She sent him tumbling backwards. He struggled to maintain grip on his gun, his head spinning as he hit the ground. Dazed, Sam stared blankly as the spirit approached him again, and he found himself wishing for Dean, his father, anyone.
Feeling like a deer in the headlights, Sam curled into himself, covering his head, even though he knew it would do no good. As he prepared for the blow he feared would come, suddenly the walls shook violently and bright light filled the room, blinding its inhabitants. With a deafening shudder, the room returned to normal, the spirit gone in an angry flash.
Sam unclenched himself slowly, almost afraid to open his eyes. His breath came heavily, his body suddenly exhausted from the overload of activity. For a moment, he had believed he was going to die, that the spirit was going to overtake him and his brother both, and although the newfound serenity in the home seemed palpable, Sam hesitated to believe it.
But as he blinked, the room came into a dim focus. The temperature had warmed and the haze was gone. Sam let out a nervous laugh. "That was close," he said in relief.
He moved from his crouched position along the wall. Dean should have offered a cocky reply, Sam realized suddenly. His eyes were readjusting to the dark. "Dean?" he called, as he turned to where he had last seen his brother.
Dean was on his side, facing away from Sam, unmoving. The shelves were broken around him, their contents spilled over him.
Sam felt paralyzed. Gradually, he pulled himself to his feet, willing his legs to inch closer to his fallen brother. Injuries were not uncommon for the Winchesters, and at ten years, Sam had had more broken bones than most people did in a life time. Moreover, he had witness his brother's bumps and cuts, and even knew a thing or two about initial treatment. It was a part of life. But he had never seen his brother lie so still before, and he was scared.
"Dean?" he repeated, hands suddenly clammy and stomach churning.
"Dean, you okay?" His own voice sounded small and terrified.
There was no response; nothing moved in the room. He knelt, carefully turning his brother to face him.
Dean rolled onto his back limply, his head falling toward Sam.
Startled, Sam recoiled, tripping over himself as he moved backwards.
The side of Dean's face was covered with blood, slicking his brother's features, making them look unnatural and garish in the dimness.
Sam was also no stranger to blood. But all the other times, Dean had been there, awake, making jokes, assuaging any anxiety he might have had.
Dean wasn't joking now. Blood was smeared down his neck, dripping onto his t-shirt. He looked--he looked dead. Sam felt sick and shut his eyes tightly to block out the image in front of him.
When he opened his eyes, the scene was still the same, and Sam tried to remember what to do. But his mind was blank, caught up in the horror of seeing his brother so still and so bloody. He fumbled back toward his brother, shaking him now, and begging, "Wake up, Dean. Wake up!"
Tears were blinding him now and he felt himself losing control. He took gasping breaths, trying to rouse Dean.
Strong hands pulled him away. Sam struggled, too distraught to recognize his father's presence.
"Sammy, you've got to calm down," John said, trying to contain the hysterical child. "Sammy, stop it, now!" The words sounded harsh, and John regretted it as he felt his youngest son's panic. But he didn't have time for soothing words or comfort. Dean needed attention, and that was all he could focus on.
The order worked. Sam's frantic movements stilled, and he turned his tear-streaked face to his father, recognition finally dawning over him. "Daddy?"
"Yeah, Sammy. Now you need to calm down while I go check on Dean, okay?"
New tears spilled down Sam's face. "Dean's hurt."
"I know," John said, his voice a little more gentle. He tried to hide the fear that tickled the back of his own mind. "Now while I take care of Dean, I want you gather up our stuff and put it away, okay? We need to move fast. I want you at the car in five minutes."
Sam sniffled and wiped his nose. For a second, he looked ready to break in to hysterics again, but instead took a deep breath, trying to act the way Dean would. "Okay."
"Good," John said approvingly. He watched Sam collect the scattered guns, turn one last longing look over his shoulder and disappear out the door.
John let out a breath, and turned to his oldest son.
Dean was sprawled on his back. John ignored the amount of blood on his face, using his flashlight to find the source of the wound. He found the gash, just along the hairline. It was deep, but not too severe.
"Dean?" he called, patting his son's cheek. "Dean, you need to wake up now."
His oldest was compliant almost to a fault. It didn't take much more than a friendly suggestion for Dean to acquiesce to his father's bidding.
But there was no response.
John shook Dean's shoulder now, and let his voice get stern. "Dean."
Nothing.
John cursed under his breath. Dean likely had a concussion, probably one that warranted hospital care. John could handle most abrasions and sprains, but he didn't mess around with unconsciousness and the risk of comas.
"Let's get you out of here, son," John murmured as he gathered the teenager into his arms. He grunted, realizing just how much his children had grown, but did not falter as he swiftly made his way out of the house.
00000000000
The trees out the window seemed to fly past. The car bounded unevenly over the road, jerking as John avoided the worst of the potholes. He was still cautious as he maneuvered around the hazards, but speed was more of an issue than when they had come down the road before.
Sam kept glancing nervously over his shoulder. The tic made John anxious; he accelerated the car. He also decided that now was the time for some answers.
"What happened, Sammy?"
Sam stiffened in the seat next to him.
John spared a long look at his son. "Samuel."
The use of his full name made Sam flinch. "We were in the library, looking for the letters. Dean said he thought he found them when I felt a chill. She was going after Dean. I fired-" Sam's voice broke off and he hung his head.
"Sam?" his father prompted.
"I missed. It went wide--to the left."
"You missed the shot?" John didn't try to mask the shock and disappointment in his voice. His sons were trained for this. He expected more from them. If they couldn't protect themselves and each other, it was a major problem.
Sam turned desperately to his father. "I didn't mean to! She was moving so fast and it was so dark--I-I didn't mean to!"
John felt himself grow angry and he clenched his teeth. "Is that when she got to Dean?"
Sam's lower lip quivered anew. "I tried, Daddy. I tried, really, I did. I didn't mean for this-I didn't-"
Sammy's excuses sounded pitiful, and John pounced on Sam's display of weakness. "Sammy, how could you let that happen?"
"She came so quickly. We didn't see her until she was on Dean--and I didn't want to hit him--" Sam's voice broke off and a sob escaped his lips. "I'm sorry, Daddy. I'm so sorry. I did this. I did this to Dean."
The blame was too easily accepted and Sam's self-deprecation made John take a deep breath and glare at the road ahead, trying to compose himself.
"Are you mad at me?" Sam asked tentatively from the passenger's seat.
John could not tear his eyes from the road. Dean was easier to get mad at--his eldest responded so stoically to criticism. John had always opted for tough love, knowing he had to steel his sons for the life they were living.
But it was so much harder with Sam. Sam did not know how to hide his feelings. Although Sam had grown up with the hunting lifestyle, John had only let him participate actively over the last year. Sam's skills progressed daily, and he had seen many things in his few years, but John knew that Sam was still inexperienced. Though he hated that Sam had missed the shot, he knew Sam was terrified enough as it was. The first exposure to real injury was not an easy one. Sam had not been negligent; this was not the time for anger. John got a grip on his emotions before he answered his son. "No, Sammy, I'm not mad."
"It's my fault."
"No, it's not your fault." The words echoed painfully inside John--feeling the blame circle closer to himself.
Sam glanced up. "I missed the shot."
John could yell at his sons for carelessness and for sloppy work. But how many shots had he missed in his hunting days? He knew hitting moving target in dim conditions wasn't easy. "It happens, Sammy. It happens to all of us, okay? You and Dean did everything right."
Confusion settled into his young features. "But if we did everything right, then how did this happen?"
"It just happens, Sammy, I--"
"But you said everything would be okay if we followed your instructions. Daddy, you promised-" Sam's voice was raw and filled with confusion.
"Samuel, I know," John said, glancing back at Dean. Emotions were a distraction--one he didn't have the patience for. His momentary compassion fled. "We need to focus now--Dean needs the hospital. Our talk isn't going to do him any good."
Sam opened his mouth, but saw his father's distress in the darkness of the car. Instead he swallowed the words and turned his eyes stonily back to the road ahead.
00000000000
Despite all the signs that forbade it, John brought the car to a squealing halt outside the emergency room doors. John didn't wait for Sam as he collected Dean and rushed toward the hospital doors.
Dazed, Sam followed after, trying to keep up with his father's brisk pace.
Entering the ER doors, John's presence was immediately noticed and Sam stood just behind him, watching as a flurry of activity erupted. There were people everywhere, talking loudly and quickly, using the doctor terminology Sam barely comprehended. Dean's arms dangled at Sam's eye level and Sam felt ill as his father placed Dean onto a gurney. He wanted to call out to Dean, to make him wake up, to hear him tease him, but as the gurney was pushed away, Sam caught sight of his brother's blood-covered face, unmoving and slack.
Sam's fear twisted in his heart, and he began to feel a steady anger growing within him. "Watch out for each other, and, I promise, you'll be just fine." Sam had always trusted his father's word as law, infallible and unquestionably true. But they had done everything right--they had been careful and quick, just like their father always told them. Bad things were only supposed to happen when they disobeyed, and they had followed orders.
Sam and Dean had both learned at young ages that there were swift and unforgiving punishments for disobedience.
So it shouldn't have happened. Dean shouldn't be on that gurney, he shouldn't be bleeding, he shouldn't be--
"It just happens, Sammy."
Sam swallowed hard and shook his head. His brother had disappeared and his father was being talked to by a nurse.
Standing in the middle of the waiting room, numbness crept through his body.
All he had ever wanted growing up was to be like Dean, to have his father's approval. He envied the pride in his father's eyes when he looked at Dean; he yearned for the confidence his brother had as he wielding weaponry. He had spent his entire life aspiring for those things, to become a Winchester man. He had listened to his father and trained and studied, and been promised that the three of them would always be okay if they stuck together and followed the plan.
But now, Dean was hurt, maybe dying. That wasn't part of any plan.
It couldn't have happened. It shouldn't have happened. Things didn't just happen when everyone did their job. John had drilled that lesson into his sons, over and over. It was a warning against carelessness, a promise of security, and Sam had never doubted it. But now his brother was unmoving and Sam could not escape the conclusion forming in hs mind: his father had lied.
There had to be fault; there had to be blame. It had to be because he hadn't shot straight. It had to be because their father hadn't burned the bones quickly enough. There had to be a reason.
Sam's eyes traveled distantly to his father, who was nodding intently, now talking to a doctor.
"I promise."
Sam could almost hear the voice, ringing in his ears. It had been a lie. Not just the lies Dean told about getting skipping school or the lies Sam himself told about where he went after school, but a real lie with consequences Sam could only begin to fathom. This revelation struck him, and he wondered how many other lies had slipped easily out of his father's mouth. Sam felt the foundation of his world begin to unravel. Suddenly all the reasons John had given them for hunting, for fighting evil, seemed insubstantial. Nothing could justify what had happened to Dean. All the what-if's were unimportant--because none of them would have mattered if they hadn't been there at all. If they had been at home, eating dinner, watching cartoons, it wouldn't matter how accurate Sam's aim was or how quick his father dug.
That realization covered him, weighing him down. He stared unblinkingly at his father, who was turning toward him.
"Let's take a seat, Sammy," John said, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder.
Sam pulled away, defiance shining in his eyes. His voice was barely a whisper. "No."
John looked surprised, then mildly annoyed. "Sammy, sit down."
The rebellion within Sam mounted. "No," he said again, louder this time.
John glanced around nervously, noticing the nurse at the front desk peeking at him over her paperwork. John forced a smile. "We're not doing Dean any good this way, Sammy." John's voice was thick and laden with intention. "Let's sit down."
"No!" Sam's voice was loud now, drawing a few curious glances from people nearby.
With a new grip on Sam's arm, John squeezed, glaring at his son. "Samuel."
It did not have the desired effect of subduing Sam. Instead Sam shook him off. "I hate you!" Sam yelled. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"
John's patience snapped. Keeping a firm hold on his son's arm, he dragged him outside while the boy thrashed and swore. Once outside the hospital, John pulled his son off to the side, so as to obscure them from anyone passing by.
Still holding Sam's arm, he shook the ten-year-old harshly. Sam looked ready to protest by John tersely cut him off. "You never--ever--cause a scene like that in public again! If you have a problem with something, you talk to me like a man, not throw a tantrum like a baby."
"I don't have to listen to you," Sam spat back. "You're a liar, and I hate you."
John felt his rage mounting. His sons had always been obedient. Usually a stern word made them compliant. Sam was seriously overstepping his bounds, and John was not in the mood to deal with it. "Watch yourself, young man," John warned.
"No," Sam said, struggling to break his father's grasp. "Leave me alone. I don't want to be near you!"
As Sam tried to break away, John increased his grip, yanking his son close to him. "Samuel, you need to stop this now," he seethed through clenched teeth. "Do you want someone to see this? You know what will happen if we get attention. Do you want to be taken away?"
"Maybe we should be taken away. You aren't a good father. Fathers are supposed to protect their kids."
"I do everything I can to protect you-"
"Liar!" Sam yelled back, kicking his father's shins.
John winced, stumbling slightly, but the ten-year-old still couldn't break the vice grip.
"You told us we'd be okay. We did everything you told us to do--everything--Dean made sure of it, and look what happened! You lied to us! It's your fault!"
John clamped his hand over his son's mouth, trying to quiet him in desperation. He'd had enough trouble trying to explain away Dean's injury without Sammy's wild accusations. "That's hunting, Sam," he explained slowly, trying to calm his wayward son. "You know it's dangerous. That's why you have to be careful. Sometimes even when you do everything right, accidents happen. Like the time you broke your arm. Or the time Dean broke his ankle."
Sam glared but stopped squirming. His father's hand released his face. "I was the one who broke my ankle. Dean broke his wrist."
"You're missing the point, Sammy. This was an accident. That's what happens when you hunt."
"Then I hate hunting!" Sam concluded with a vehement shake of his head. "Why do we have to do it?"
John sighed. "You know why, Sammy."
Sam shook his head. "No. I don't."
"We have to do it--after what happened to your mother, knowing what we know--we just have to, Sammy."
"No one else hunts."
"We're not like other people."
"We can be."
John gave a sad smile. "It's not that easy."
"Yes, it is," Sam insisted. "You're just not trying. If you would just try, you could get a normal job like all the other dads. And then we could have a house and Dean and I could stay in one school and we'd have friends and play sports."
"Sammy…"
Sam shook his head, his eyes slowly filling with tears. "We could eat real dinners and be in school plays and Dean could--Dean would--" Sam's voice broke and he bgan to cry. "Dean would be okay. Hunting killed Dean, Daddy--I hate it. I hate it."
John watched as his son sobbed. The purity of his son's grief broke his heart. Slowly he released his grip and placed a hand on his son's cheek. "Oh, Sammy. Is that what you think? That Dean's dead?"
Sam turned wide, red eyes up at his father. "There was so much blood and he wasn't moving-"
Shaking his head, John knelt to Sam's level. "No, Sammy. Dean's not dead. He's just got a bad bump on the head. The doctors are fixing him all up. He's going to be fine."
Sam's face trembled and his chest rose and fell with hiccupping breaths. "He is?"
"Yes," John said with a small laugh.
"I don't believe you," Sam said pulling away. "You're lying again."
"Sammy," John said, almost surprised. He was used to his sons' complete faith; he had never seen such doubt in either of their eyes before. "I wouldn't lie to you."
Sam looked skeptical.
"Do you want to see him?"
Hesitantly, Sam gave a nod.
"Then let's go," John replied.
00000000000
Sam slumped in the blue plastic chair, counting the ceiling tiles in the waiting room. His father had promised to let him see Dean, but he had yet to follow through. The ten-year-old's faith in his father was already strained, and if he didn't produce results--a smiling, joking older brother--that faith could shatter altogether.
He glanced at his father, who was talking to a doctor on the far side of the waiting room. They had been talking for awhile. Sam had wanted to listen in, but his father's firm glare had made him reconsider. Instead, he resigned himself to waiting, which, he supposed, was the purpose of a waiting room.
He shifted in his seat. He wondered why the seats were so uncomfortable. His attention drifted back to the ceiling, and he realized he had lost count. Starting in the corner, he began again.
Sixteen tiles later, his father's voice broke him from his mindless activity. "You ready?"
Sam jumped out the chair and looked hopefully at his father. "We can see him?"
"Yep," his father said. "He's resting comfortably down the hall. Just a concussion."
Sam allowed himself a moment of relief. Dean had had a concussion before, and he had been okay. He followed his father dutifully down the winding corridors, his anticipation growing. Finally they stopped outside room 112.
John turned to Sam. "Dean may be asleep, but he'll wake up soon. And I promise, Sammy, Dean will be okay."
Normally his father's promise would have been enough, but this time Sam needed to see with his own eyes. He entered the room hastily, but immediately grew timid as he took in the sight of his brother in the bed. Dean was indeed still asleep, his head turned somewhat to the side, just like it had in the house.
Sam ground his teeth together, determined not to show his father weakness. He inched to a chair to one side of Dean's bed while his father made his way to the other.
Perched on the edge, Sam examined his brother. The blood had been cleaned off his face and the blood stained t-shirt had been removed. His brother wore a generic hospital gown, and a large bandage was wrapped around Dean's head, masking the wound Sam knew was there.
A monitor beeped nearby, assuring Sam that his brother still had a heartbeat. He would not believe his father, though, until Dean awoke and told him himself; even then, Sam wasn't sure he would ever trust John again.
Dean stirred with the new presence in the room. Sam wanted to move closer, but found himself hanging back, almost afraid to move.
John leaned forward, putting himself in Dean's line of vision. "Dean?"
Dean grimaced and opened his eyes. "Dad?"
John grinned. "Got a nice bump on the head there."
Dean shifted. "Yeah, I know. It's not bad though," Dean concluded with some confidence; he had had worse injuries in the past. "CT went well."
"Yeah, your doc says you'll be fine. They want to keep you here, at least overnight."
"Man, can't we check out? Sign the AMA?"
"Nope," John said with a rueful shake of his head at his son's frustration. "Looks too suspicious. I think we've avoided social workers, and I don't want to raise any flags."
Rolling his eyes, Dean sighed. "Yeah, yeah."
"You hungry? I think there's a candy machine at the end of the hall," John offered.
Dean perked up. Such indulgences were common, as their meager budget could rarely afford name brand chocolate. "M&Ms?"
"You got it," John said. He rose to leave. "Anything for you, Sammy?"
Sam shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. John hesitated, wishing he knew how to read his youngest son. But he did not press the matter. Silence followed in their father's departure.
"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked finally.
"Yeah, of course," Sam replied. "You're the one she got."
Dean shrugged. "Eh, lucky on her part."
Sam was not comforted by his brother's macho exterior. He bit his lip while Dean searched for the TV remote.
"You really okay, Dean?"
Dean opened and closed the drawer on the bedside table. "Me? 'Course I am, Sammy."
"But there was so much blood-"
"Head wounds. You know they bleed."
"But you weren't moving."
Dean stopped his search and finally looked at his brother. Sammy seemed to be shrinking into the chair, trying to disappear. His voice gentler now, he said, "I'm okay, Sammy."
Sam gave shook his head slightly. "I should have tried harder," Sam said softly.
"Sammy, this wasn't your fault."
Sam looked unconvinced. "If I had had better aim-"
"That thing blindsided us, little brother. Nothing we could have done about it."
"Why not?"
Dean shrugged. "That's how it happens, I guess. Hunting isn't predictable."
"Then why do we do it?"
Dean sighed and looked at the ceiling. "It's what we do," he said.
"I don't want to hunt anymore."
Looking back at his brother, Dean replied, "What are you talking about?"
"I don't want to hunt. I hate it."
"How could you hate it? You know you like playing with the big guns."
Sam couldn't take his eyes off the bandage around Dean's head. He kept remembering Dean's slackened features in the dim light. "I don't want anything to happen to you."
Dean studied his brother, taken aback. "Nothing's going to happen to me."
"But something already happened to you," Sam countered.
"A scratch. No big deal."
"Yes, it is."
Dean cocked his head curiously. Sammy never disagreed with him, not on the important things; whatever Dean said, Sam followed without question. Uncertain of how to gauge his brother's newfound stubbornness, Dean tried a different approach. "This kind of thing," he said, pointing at the head wound, "makes us stronger. It makes us better. You better believe that--next time no spirit will get the upper hand on us. Together, Sammy, we can be unstoppable. But you can't just walk away. It takes time and work."
Sam looked unconvinced.
"Trust me, Sammy," Dean said smoothly, leaning back in the bed. "Unstoppable."
The fear in Sam's stomach abated somewhat, eased by the confidence of his brother. Indeed, Dean was still Dean, and he looked no worse for wear than all the other scrapes they'd been through. More than that, Sam wanted to believe his brother, he wanted to trust him. He needed to trust him. John might have lied, but Dean never had. And Sam clung to that.
Sam let a small smile play across his face as he tried to bury the fear. "Just like Superman?"
"Much better than Superman," Dean replied, playing into his brother's growing faith. "With no kryptonite in sight."