Glass Skies
Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who's reading, and those who are sharing your thoughts. You know I appreciate it. Also, for this part…there's a lot of Sam/John angst I needed to get out of the way to make room for a lot of Dean angst in the next part. Also, it should be noted there are a few words of rough language used. And, for whatever is left a bit confusing in this part, I hope to clarify more in the next. Now, onward with the drama…
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Panic held tightly onto Sam's body. Every inch he neared the approaching semi was a heartbeat skipped. He couldn't get the images out of his head of his brother and father lying there, half dead. He couldn't escape the near-memory of watching the fire erupt and gulp down all he had left in the world.
I saw it so I could change it…
That had become his mantra. He had to change it. It could not happen. He could not lose them.
But how did he change it?
Did he go off road? Did he speed up and hope to swerve just in time? Somehow, a game of chicken did not sit well with Sam while Dean was bleeding to death in the back of the car.
And he couldn't turn around. He couldn't hope to outdo the semi truck in a racing contest and he wouldn't dare drive farther away from the hospital that Dean so painfully needed to get to.
He was stuck, and his time to find a solution was ticking away.
Then, something drove him to speed up.
It can't happen…I have to stop it…
And he accelerated.
The vehicle was closer. And closer. And closer.
John was yelling something, asking something.
Sam was struggling to speak, hastily trying to decide how he would change the course of such a dark and twisted fate presented to him.
Sam was going faster. John was yelling louder. That damn semi was getting closer. Sam watched. Sam waited. Sam saw it all over again.
"They were all that stood between you and I. And now, they can never keep me from you."
"Sammy! Sammy!"
"He's going to die knowing you didn't save him."
"Sam!"
"He's going to die…"
"Sammy!"
"You didn't save him…"
A horn blared. Sparks flew from tires, lighting up the midnight asphalt. The next thing Sam realized was the semi that so quickly and recklessly neared him was now screeching off the road, veering down a slope and tumbling and tumbling and tumbling…and then it exploded.
The flash of light and the wave of heat sent a movement rolling through the air. Sam tightened his grip to take better control of the Impala on the highway as it swerved from the blast. A grey plume of smoke reached for the stars and a fire roared in the distance.
"What the…" John gripped the dashboard, pulling himself forward to get a better view of the accident. "Did that…" he looked over to Sam, who was staring straight ahead. Sam didn't even flinch when the semi-truck crumbled its way off the road. Sam wasn't even looking, wasn't even curious. It was almost as if he was in some kind of trance.
"Sam?" John asked. Sam kept staring ahead. "Sam," John reinforced his tone to demand a response. Sam still kept staring ahead.
John hated the new silence that fell between him and his sons. He was losing Dean, and now it appeared he was losing Sam, too.
Haven't you lost them already? Dark voices whispered to John…
"Damn it, Sam! Are you okay?"
It was then that John saw the blood trickling from Sam's ear.
And John then fumbled to grab the steering wheel as it slipped from Sam's grip.
And Sam's eyes shut and his head dipped forward, and the car slowed to a stop.
It was another moment of several this night, when John believed the world was ending.
He'd already come so far and lost too much, that losing either of his sons would be unbearable. A pain ripped through the flesh in his leg as he stepped onto pavement and made his way around to the driver's side. He wasn't sure how he managed the lift, or the slinging of Sam over his shoulder, or the gentle but heavy maneuvering of his youngest son's unconscious body next to his oldest. But, somehow, he managed.
Then John got in the driver's seat, and using his legs to the best of his ability, he started driving. He tore into the gas pedal like a lifeline. The hospital was never further from him.
His body felt broken in places, but he knew his son's were broken more, and, instinctually, that hurt worse than his own pain.
John forgot what it was to feel the pain a father should feel when his children are in danger, are in pain, are suffering. John forgot because he was always on the run, always moving away from their pain, away from them. He had been selfish and he knew it. Because when Sam cried or when Dean almost cried, it didn't just hurt John- it damn near killed him. And John could not afford that vulnerability in his life, not with so much else on the line- like finding and killing the demon that took Mary away.
And as John drove, speeding down the quiet streets of the city, he'd glance back at his wounded warriors. He thought, in sick amusement, how with so much pain inflicted on them, that they looked so peaceful when they were together. With how broken they had become in this fight, when seeing them together John felt he was seeing them whole.
And that hurt, too.
The fact his sons completed each other as the other's family, and John was the outsider, the one watching from a distance, the one not returning phone calls, the one that even caused a rift between them.
Yet, John knew that he placed himself on the outside.
He kept himself at a distance.
He didn't call his sons back.
And he would forever bear the guilt of causing a rift between something so wonderful as what his boys had and could have and should have.
The truth was, John wasn't one to apologize, to admit fault. He wasn't one to say 'if I had another chance, it'd be different,' because they did not have the kind of life where another chance was possible or even conceivable. He wasn't one to say 'I did the best I could with what I had' because he had the best and didn't do enough to keep it. He wasn't one to say 'if we make it through this, we can start over,' because when his sons made it through this, John knew it'd be just the beginning.
And most of all, John wasn't one to tell his sons that he'll change, that he's made mistakes and now he wants a chance to make it up…because he can't change, he will make mistakes, and he doesn't deserve a second chance.
Right now, for the first time in a long, long time…the only thing on John Winchester's mind was the welfare of his children. And, sadly, even John knew that by morning- that could very well be considered a lie. He could never only think of his children. He could never only remember love.
He had way too much to hate, and feeling anger from hate was always easier than feeling pain from lost love.
Emotions were clouding his mind, unsettling his thoughts and ability to focus. After one more look at his sons, urging them silently to hang on, the rest of the drive was a blur.
-:-
John had to focus. The lighting of the room bounced off the white walls and cut into his eyes. He had to force them open, force them to adjust. He needed to wake up.
He needed to see his sons.
If they were still alive…
"Easy now, sir," a friendly but firm voice started to revive his senses. "You have some fine painkillers coursing through your body right now."
John's eyes were partially opened, and he saw a tall, blonde haired and blue eyed man standing next to him with a white coat and a name badge reading "Dr. Stevens".
"What…happened?" John hated the sound of his voice, the sound of stifled weakness.
"Well, a few hours ago you brought yourself in with two younger men, both unconscious. After..." Dr. Stevens paused to clear his throat. "You kindly instructed our staff to help your boys, that wounded leg of yours finally caught up to you, I suppose, and you passed out."
"How…are they? The boys?"
"Tell me, sir, how is it they got in those conditions?"
The hesitation, the stall- it was like a needle in John's brain and he squinted from the harsh thought…if they were okay, he'd tell me…if they weren't…
"There was a fight…bar fight…I walked in on it too late…I don't know the rest…Just, tell me…how are they?"
"They're fine. The taller one had some tests ran. Doctors have yet to find a reason for why his ears had blood in them. He only sustained some mild bruising and scrapes, and is otherwise perfectly healthy. The other…he hasn't woken from surgery yet."
"Was it…extensive? Will he be okay?"
John knew it was a dumb question to ask, even if the doctor wouldn't think so.
Dean will never be the same, thanks to him…
"Well, sir…it was difficult. He was bleeding profusely with long, claw-like marks over his chest. Whatever bar fight this was…it was as if someone tried to sever his heart from the rest of him…from the inside, out…I've never seen anything like it. He's in recovery, now. With time, we'll find out the exact extent of his injuries."
John fell silent. He decided it was in his favor not to dwell on it. At first, he thought it was heartless not to concern himself with his oldest son right now…but if he thought about it for a second longer, he knew he'd go insane shortly after.
"My other son…he's awake?"
"Yes, he's in another room, resting. I must advise you, though…"
"What?" John asked as the doctor let out a sigh.
"Since he became conscious…he hasn't spoken. Not a word." Dr. Stevens watched as John grimaced in confusion. "I'll have a nurse come in with a wheelchair. She'll take you to his room. After that…I'm afraid I'll need you to fill out some paperwork…Mr.…?"
John was caught off guard and quickly pulled out a name. "Winfield. John Winfield."
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Sam heard the door open. He heard the door close. He heard the rolling of wheels slide over to his bedside. He kept his eyes shut because he knew who it was, knew the questions he'd have, knew the truth he'd have to face.
"…They said you weren't speaking..."
"None of them would know about my brother…so I had nothing to say to them. All they would tell me I couldn't see him yet, anyway …You know? I woke up just in time to see them take him into surgery? I didn't have time to…say anything…"
"Well, uh…I just wanted to see how you were doing," John was hurt suddenly by his youngest son's tone. So detached. He wasn't sure how to respond to it properly. John wasn't known as a Hallmark card kind of guy, and heart to hearts were few and far between.
"I killed him." Sam suddenly said.
The words left the room too easily in silence, and John found it almost impossible to reply.
"Excuse me?"
"That truck driver…I killed him." Sam opened his eyes, but they reflected nothing of what John was used to seeing. He stared blankly into nothing, searching, hoping, for something John couldn't understand.
"Sam, look, I don't know what happened back there, but—"
"I do. In the vision, Dad. I saw it all happen…you and Dean, that demon…I couldn't let it happen." The void in Sam's eyes left John feeling cold, and he shivered involuntarily. Sam's hand was seen at the edge of his bed, folding up the blanket and squeezing.
"Couldn't let what happen, Sam?"
"You don't get it!" Sam shot out, the strength and depth of his voice startling even himself. "He killed you both! Right in front of me, so I had to watch!"
"Sam…"
"Damn it…When I saw that truck coming…I knew it was the Demon coming after us. He would have hit us, then the Demon would have set the car on fire and…" Sam turned finally to face his father, eyes still empty but slowly filling with tears. "That driver is dead now because of me. But, I had to kill him…before he killed you...before he killed Dean…"
"What are you talking about? That semi flipped over, you were sitting right next to me…how could you possibly be the cause of it?" John didn't understand why his voice trembled with anger, with confusion when he already had the vaguest idea that this was some giant secret he was being told, a secret that shouldn't have been kept a secret. A truth he should have known, should have been there to know, but wasn't.
Sam looked hurt, looked frightened to say the words, so he put them in a question and hoped it'd be enough.
"And…how do you think that semi flipped, Dad?"
John remembered, while in the Demon's possession, the words he said…the things he knew.
The Demon knew his sons better than he did.
What was it he called Sam? Psychic Boy?
"You mean…you…"
"Yeah…telepathy."
Silence. And then, after a long pause…
"How often…I mean…"
"It's only happened just once before…"
By the sound of Sam's tone, John knew he better drop the subject…just for now.
Silence again.
"Well…the doctors need some paperwork filled out. By the way, our alias is Winfield. We were in a bar fight. Police will probably have some questions…"
Sam kept his silence, and John looked away.
"I'll…be back in a little while." John turned the wheelchair around and began to head for the door. When his hand was on the doorknob is when Sam spoke up.
"You never even asked…"
"Asked what?"
"About Dean. After he nearly died…you didn't even ask if he was okay. And that whole time we were in the car…you didn't even look at him."
"I didn't …I couldn't look at him."
"You wouldn't. And because you didn't, I'm scared to see him…I'm scared to go see him so…broken…and it's your fault."
John's hand dropped from the doorknob, but he did not face his son.
"That Demon is the one who did this to us, to our family…"
"I'm not talking about that," Sam stated unsympathetically. "I'm talking about you. Begging me to shoot you, to kill you…as if that would solve everything."
"I did exactly what I had to do!" John said, and it was his turn to yell. "I did exactly what you would have done!"
"LIAR!" Sam shouted, and sat up warily from his bed. "Like Dean said, killing that thing isn't worth dying over!" He saw that now more clearly than he ever could before.
John forced himself to stand, numbness tingled through his leg that he ignored, and gave his weight to the other. Sam was quick to stand as well.
"Dean doesn't know what it's worth!"
Sam took a few steps forward, narrowing his eyes.
"Like hell he doesn't! He knows exactly what's best for this family- what's left of it, anyway! Don't you dare say he doesn't know what it's worth…don't you fucking dare!"
"You don't speak to me like that. I am your father, I know what's best, and you disobeyed me! This could have been over, we could have finished it…killed that damn demon…"
"And you're okay if Dean died in the process? You're okay with the fact he's lying alone in some room after his so called father tried to murder him?"
"I don't know what the hell has gotten into you lately. Of course I'm not okay with that…you don't think I fought as hard as I could to stop?" John questioned madly, angered by the fact he even had to ask.
Sam gave a quick, small laugh. "No, I don't think you fought at all."
"What did you say?" John hardly whispered, taking a step closer and limping over to Sam.
"I think you knew I'd do it. I'd pull that trigger if you hurt Dean badly enough…You knew I would, all you needed was for Dean to beg for his life, didn't you?"
John didn't answer. John barely breathed.
The audacity of it all crushed him.
The near truth of it finished him off.
"It's not as simple as you make it out to be. And frankly, I can't believe you believe that."
"Well, believe me when I say this…the only reason I didn't pull the trigger…was because Dean asked me not to."
And that was all Sam had to say.
The two stood inches away from each other, one muscle movement away from a hard swipe across the face. They stood eye to eye yet worlds apart. And for the first time in John's life…he backed down. He limped over to the wheelchair, kicked it out of the way, and Sam was left alone in the room, seething, as John slammed the door shut.
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He didn't know why it was so cold all of a sudden. He'd been cold for awhile, but now he was near freezing, shuddering beneath foreign blankets with the awkwardly familiar smell of a hospital.
Only starting to wake up, his mind tried to process why he was there, why his chest hurt so much, why his entire body ached with a tiredness no sleep could cure.
He was only starting to wake up, eyes still shut, when he first felt it.
Drip...
Right beside him, it fell.
He stirred a little, more thoughts rising to his awareness.
Where was Sam? Where was their father? Are they okay?
He wondered if he should complete the process of waking up by opening his eyes. Part of him wasn't ready to wake up; wasn't ready to accept the possibility that this entire night was real and truly happened.
Drip...
Right on his forehead, it fell.
And he just knew…
Knew he couldn't open his eyes, knew he couldn't look up.
"Dean…"
God, no, not that voice…that voice that summoned Dean to always answer, always respond to, always wake up to…
Drip…
"Why, Dean?"
Dean tried to keep his eyes shut.
No, Sammy…no…
He didn't want to open them and see him there, above him, latched to the ceiling. But there was blood on his forehead, and he felt it trickling down his face, teasing him.
It had to be a nightmare. It had to be. And even in sleep, the pain hurt too real.
But he understood…the sooner he opened his eyes, the sooner he saw what he feared to see, the sooner he'd really wake up.
It had to be a nightmare.
Drip…
Dean opened his eyes. And there Sam was. His abdomen slashed, his mouth open with a silent cry for help.
"SAMMY!"
Fire rippled through the ceiling, circling Sam like a vulture, twisting around him and binding him to Death. Dean felt the heat, the very hot heat that stole the cold away and cut through him violently.
"No! Sammy!"
"He's mine now forever…"
If fire had a face, it would grin. He heard the Demon's evil smile as it spoke; almost drown out completely by Dean's own screams. And Dean reached for Sam. He tried to grab him down, tried to pull him away, but something was pinning Dean to the bed as it was Sam to the ceiling, and Dean couldn't move- could only claw and claw and claw for his brother, scream for his brother- could only reach out to, but never reach his brother.
He should have known better. Sometimes the nightmares are real.
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Sam felt it before he heard it. The screams. Screams he heard in a recent nightmare. But he had changed fate, hadn't he? He changed it so he wouldn't have to hear those nightmarish screams coming from his brother. Dean yelling for him, crying out for him.
Sam ran to the door, swinging it open just in time to see a crowd of nurses and doctors sprinting down the hall. A few of them were talking rapidly amongst themselves.
"I heard they're having to sedate him…"
"They say he was calling out for someone named 'Sam'?"
"It's like he was hallucinating…like he saw someone on the ceiling…"
Sam cringed and fought back tears as he started following the group, running to help his brother.
Of all the things Dean ever taught him, Sam wished there was one lesson he could forget. Sometimes, the nightmares are real.
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To be continued…
Thank you for reading. Of course constructive criticism is welcome, along with anything else…but I can do very little with flames…which, I might expect a couple…The next part will be up soon.
Silver Kitten