Spirit Fall, Chapter 9
A/N: Thanks to everybody that's read and reviewed! That's why Ikeep writing this thing anyway.
--------------------
"Your son isn't waking up."
John stares at the doctor for a moment, taking in her overly sorrowful, apologetic, pitiful, sad expression, like she's talking about her own kid or something. It's enough to make him ill.
"Clearly," he drawls dryly in reply. "Did it take eight years of med school for you to figure that one out?"
Her face falls flat at this and she purses her lips in annoyance.
"Sir, I'm just trying to explain to you what we're going to be doing now."
John shifts backward and crosses his arms stiffly. They've seen enough doctors by now to know the ropes and how every doctor has their own unique, yet still similar, way of tip toeing through the 'delicate' issues. And he's had about enough of it.
"Hey doc," he interrupts. "Cut the shit, okay? I get it. My kid," he pauses to breath. "My son is dying."
"I won't lie to you--"
"Oh, good," John grins sarcastically.
"That is a possibility, Mr. Winchester," she continues, unwavering. "But right now, his odds are looking good."
"This isn't a goddamn poker game lady!" he growls feverishly. "Don't talk to me about odds and chances."
"But--"
"But nothing. You go do your job, whatever the hell it takes. And if you'll excuse me, I need to go do mine." And then he turns, as he has so often in the past, leaving one very disgruntled person in his wake, and marches back to his family.
--------------------
Inside Dean's room, the lights are dimmed, just one small lamp above the bed and there are no windows. It's too easy to lose track of time in the shadowed space with no sense of the outside world. Dean lies as still as ever in the bed, a bony testament to strength, jaw tilted upward in defiance even as he sleeps. Sam is seated beside him; arms crossed on the white blanket and chin resting on his knuckles. His eyes flick over to his father, but he doesn't move as John sits opposite him.
John drags his chair closer to the bed, wanting, needing to settle into this bubble of theirs, just for a minute, breathing the same air in a timeless void.
In the week since they'd been here, Dean's waking moments had been few and fading. No more words exchanged than reintroductions and simple explanations. It's Dad, Dean. It's Sam. You're in the hospital. The last exchange had been two days ago though. Now, Dean slept away in what the doctors insisted was not a coma, though he showed most signs of being so.
John was truly beginning to think that these people have no idea what they're talking about.
He clears his throat softly.
"Sammy?" he asks. Sam glances up without speaking, wide brown eyes peering over Dean's side like a soldier belly down in the trench. "It's late. We should go get some sleep."
"I'll stay here," Sam replies flatly, looking back to his brother.
"You need to sleep," John says more sternly, staring hard at his youngest. Sam doesn't even move under his command though. "Sam," John orders again, reluctantly standing himself. "Let's go."
A heated glare hits John straight in the forehead and he wishes for not the first time throughout all this that he had some kind of backup. Someone to stand beside him and say 'Yes, Sam, now' and 'don't argue' and 'don't worry, everything will be okay.' He needs Mary now. He needs to talk to the one person that could always understand.
"Sam, I'm not saying it again," he growls, but in his mind, he's making other plans. Seeing dark highways, pushing through the drive to a sunny day, a field of flowers, Mary. He has to go. He has to go now.
Sam still isn't moving though, instead watching and waiting carefully for what his father will do next. He's testing the limits and Lord knows now is not the time for it. John moves swiftly around the bed to him, grips him under the arms and pulls him to his feet.
"Hey," Sam protests, jumping away from his father's hands. John grapples for his arm.
"I wasn't giving you options."
"But Dean--"
"He'll be here when we get back." John half expects Sam to throw a fit as he's dragged out of the room, but this is Dean's space, his sanctuary. Neither of them will yell in a place where they barely dare whisper.
In the hall, Sam pulls away from his father's hold to jab at the elevator button. A vague memory surfaces, just a few years old really, of this same boy dancing eagerly in front of another elevator in another random building.
"Can I push the button?" he'd asked, all little kid enthusiasm, begging for the permission to perform this simple 'adult' task, or, maybe he just wanted to. It was the asking that was important. "Can I do it? Can I do it, Dean?"
That part of the memory falls awkwardly into place. Sam hadn't even been talking to him, John realizes. Maybe he hadn't even been there.
"He shouldn't be alone," Sam says now, glancing about the hallway as they wait for the elevator. John blinks, realizing he'd been spacing out of the here again. Sam presses the button again and John has an odd sense of lost time and displacement.
"We shouldn't leave him alone," Sam says again. His voice holds equal notes of anger and pleading.
"It's only a little while," John finally manages to reply. "He'll be okay. I've got a few things to take care of."
"I thought we had to sleep," Sam replies surly. Though, John counts it as a small victory when the elevator arrives and Sam follows him obediently into the tiny box. He waits for the doors to ding closed before speaking.
"You can sleep in the car," he says evenly, not looking at his son, but calculating a ten, twelve hour drive in his mind. It'd be easier if Dean could do some of it, but he can't, and that's sort of the point, isn't it? Damn, he just needs to talk to Mary.
"The car?" Sam repeats, confused, and then realizing, he shakes his head. "No," he says, and again louder. "No way. You can't leave." His voice is a little squeaky and extra loud in the tiny elevator. "You can't leave!" he shrieks, small hands in fists.
"Sam," John warns him.
"No! No!"
"Sam."
"What's so important for you to leave now?" he cries. "He can't be alone."
"It's just a day or so. He'll be fine," John replies calmly leaning back against the wall.
"He isn't fine Dad!" Sammy bellows, for once opening his mouth and yelling at full volume. Gone is the quiet, meek boy. The real Sam is much too angry for someone his size. He shakes and shivers and draws in a ragged, wet breath. Lets it back out in a barking, coughing sort of cry. John stares blankly at him, just an arm's length away really, and is still staring when the elevator rumbles to a stop and the doors slide open.
Sam slips quickly out into the hall and through an oblivious waiting room to the exit.
John follows after him, never losing sight of the shaggy brown hair, thinking this is some sort of delayed reaction, grief or fear or something. He remembers Dean, silent and empty, after Mary's death and wonders vaguely who got what from who. He isn't sure how Mary would grieve; in their short time together everything was just ridiculously, almost frighteningly, good. No one was ever sick, no funerals, and no hospitals. Maybe that wasn't real. It doesn't feel real anymore.
Mary would probably be the strong one, he decides.
Out in the parking lot, Sam stands next to the Impala under the streetlamps, just about jumping with unreleased energy. John moves past him to slide in on the driver's side and then reaches over to unlock the passenger door. But Sam makes no move to open it. So John does it for him, stretching to grasp at the handle and shoving the door out.
"Sam. In. Now," he commands. Sam crosses his arms and shakes his head, biting hard on his bottom lip.
"No sir."
"That was an order son, not a question." John watches Sam waver for a moment, taking a step toward the car and then a step back and then he tilts his jaw up and shrugs his shoulders in a perfect imitation of the kind of snotty brat John never wanted to raise.
"So?" he postures.
"So get in the goddamn car!" John roars, slapping the seat with his palm. To Sam's credit, John knows he can be a scary bastard when he's angry, but his son only flinches a little and doesn't lose his anger.
"No!" he yells back, just as loud, like it's the best comeback ever.
"Yes!" John shouts in return.
"I can't leave him alone!"
"We aren't leaving him Sam."
"Yes you are!" Sam shrieks. "You want to leave now! You're always leaving!"
"You better watch it, Sammy," John intones carefully, almost grateful his son is out of reach, away from his own wavering self control.
"You don't even care!" Sam rants on, shaking fists at his sides, bouncing on his toes. "You hate being around us! Even when you're here, you're not really here!"
"Sam," John growls.
"And you don't even care! Dean's sick and you want to leave and you don't even care. He's gonna die and no one will even be there and you don't even care!"
"Sam, stop it," John hisses fiercely.
"No! No. You leave. You leave now, just like always." Sam's nearly hysterical now, crying and yelling, scarcely breathing when he grabs the passenger door with both hands and slams it hard enough to rock the entire car. John sits back, startled, holding the steering wheel as Sam disappears and the car calms. Then everything is still and quiet and he is alone.
--------------------