Glass Skies

Author's Note: Real quick- sorry for the delay. Real life sucks right now. Also, thanks for not letting my mistake of saying telepathy instead of telekinesis deter you. I stand corrected. Or, well…sit. Anyways, this part includes some of the angstiest stuff I've written…ever. Enjoy…

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Everything inside him was cold again. His entire body was shivering. All of him was freezing- except for his hand. His hand was warm. His hand was held. And he pulled himself out of his frigid slumber, the almost comfortable, extremely numbing sleep and sought out the source of the warmth. When Dean opened his eyes, saw Sam's hand holding his, it forced the rest of himself to begin thawing out.

He didn't want the cold nothingness anymore. He wanted to feel his brother there with him, alive and warm and there—not bleeding, burning, dying on the ceiling. And Dean wanted to talk. He wanted to say a million things as he watched his brother sleeping beside him, head over his arm, hand holding his. He wanted to laugh, wanted to cry, wanted to move the hair out of Sam's tired eyes. But he couldn't move, he couldn't talk. His voice was gone somewhere he couldn't find. And he was still so tired, so very tired, and trying desperately to hang on to the warmth and escape the cold.

Dean simply lay there, being as he couldn't move anyway, and watched Sam sleep. Probably passed out from exhaustion…

And he wondered how long they'd been there, the two of them. How long since that night—and what of their father? Questions lingered around his waking mind, striking against the walls of his silent prison. But he was okay for the most part. He knew Sam was there with him and so he was safe.

Suddenly, he felt the warm hand over his tighten, and Sam's body squirmed in the chair that he'd pulled as close as possible to his hospital bed. He might have moaned something, might have whimpered, a kind of quiet noise that Dean trained himself to listen for, to acknowledge, so he could put Sam back at ease.

He was having a nightmare.

And Sam was trying to wake up, but he couldn't free himself from the tormenting images. He couldn't save himself from the pain of the unreal—the unimaginable—but the very vivid horrors that always swarmed to his unconsciousness like a shadow to darkness. And Dean was aware of this. He wanted to wake Sam from his nightmare. But his voice was still gone, trapped somewhere inside a heavy chest.

Dean opened his mouth, shaping Sam's name but hardly an audible breath whispered from his lips. And his throat felt so raw, as if it'd been torn open to dry out.

Sam, wake up…it's okay…

He wanted to say. Why the hell did it hurt so much when he tried to talk? Why was it such a struggle to use his voice now?

Sam was visibly panicked now, trapped in his dream as Dean was trapped in his body.

Dean didn't understand. How could he be so weak when Sam needed him?

But he had to try. Again and again, right through the pain, he had to try…

"…Sam…" he barely heard himself speak, and a burning pain coursed through his chest as he spoke. It must have been enough, because Sam's eyes shot open and he looked both startled and relieved as he propped his head back up and stared at him. He seemed to shake away whatever bad dream had a hold over him, and that, for Dean, was worth the pain.

"Dean…God…" Sam blinked his still-drowsy eyes, trying to focus on his brother who still seemed to be waking up himself. "Hey…how are you feeling?"

"Hurts…to talk…" Dean puffed out. He put his free hand over his chest, wishing he could push the pain that erupted back where it was hibernating.

"Right…sorry."

"Doesn't mean…I'm going…to shut up…"

"Dean," Sam tried not to smile as he sighed. His brother had been through a lot. He really did need his rest. "I'm just glad you're okay."

"You?" Using his voice, the added pressure to his sore chest, was becoming something he was fighting through, but like all fights—he planned on winning.

"I'm okay. I've had a headache for the past two days—which is how long you've been out, but I'm okay."

"What about your…vision?" Dean was curious. One of the last clear things he could remember was Sam freaking out on the way to the hospital.

Sam's thoughts returned again to the demon setting the Impala on fire with Dean and their dad still inside. The flames, the darkness, the screaming…

Dean screaming…

Sam shuddered at the thought, and Dean took notice.

"Uh…the uh…semi…it showed up shortly after you passed out…and…" Sam found it difficult to state it. To actually utter the words, to give them voice and point them out to reality as truth. He used his powers. It was as simple, and complicated, as that.

"What?" Dean imparted a rough laughter in the question. "It hit us, we all died…and now…we're in hell?"

The wry humor of his brother didn't settle around Sam very well. He shook his head and took his eyes away from his brother lying there. He remembered the last time he admitted use of this strange power he still struggled to understand, to control. He felt Dean looked at him like he was a freak—more so than the general term they applied to themselves and their life. A real freak. But, Dean was his brother, and as such he had a right to know. And, more so, Sam had to tell someone who would understand more than his father had. If not understand, at least accept.

"Actually…I…kind of sort of…tapped into my telekinesis."

Sam felt his brother's eyes on him, stronger than before, searching more than looking. He brought himself to retain eye contact again, preparing to see the awkward grief and confusion in Dean's eyes as he had months ago when the odd confession first came about.

Instead of awkward confusion and blatant fear, Sam was almost relieved and a little unnerved to see a kind of satisfaction gleaming in Dean's eyes, a kind of slick pride that shined like only a big brother could achieve. Dean's jaw dropped, half way curling into a curious smile.

"Dude, don't tell me…you flipped a semi?"

Hearing it from Dean, it wasn't as bad as Sam thought it would be. Hearing it from Dean made it sound a lot lighter than it was. Sam allowed a small chuckle to pass, but quickly resumed his most practiced brooding stance against the situation.

"Yeah, Dean. I guess I did…" For you…

"Wow…remind me…not to piss you off." Dean said, half joking and half serious. Sam stood up for the first time in hours, ignoring the dull pain stretching across his tall body that had crouched for so long against Dean's bedside. He wanted to throw his hands in the air, to throw something, anything, to just yell out. This wasn't a joke, even though he was happy enough that Dean could find humor in it. This was serious. It was just what Sam feared…

"You don't get it. I mean, I killed that truck driver," Sam pulled at his hair for a moment and then slumped his arms down to his sides in defeat. "I killed him…and I'm not bothered by the fact I killed to save you. You know that's not it…it's the fact I killed like Max killed. I am like him, Dean…"

If Dean could have mustered up the strength to stand, he would have. He would have marched right over to Sam and shook him—hard—smack the sense back into him and then hug him like there was no tomorrow. He saw the pain in Sam's eyes as the realization sunk in. But Dean knew it wasn't true. Sam wasn't like Max. Not the way Sam thought he was.

"Hey…shut up. You're…a killer like me, not Max," Dean took a moment to gather strength to continue talking. His breath left him a lot faster than he was used to. "Max killed out of…hate. But you and me? We kill…out of love."

It was that twisted Winchester logic and Sam relished in it. Months of worry, hours of grief and fear, all washed away with just those few words spoken by the one who meant the most to Sam. It was all he needed to hear. The justice that Sam stood for would always know that killing was killing, no matter what the intention. But it was everything else that Sam stood for, everything his brother and the Winchester family stood for, that intentions played a part and a part that really mattered. At least, it made him feel better to believe that. And Dean always reminded him of such.

He still felt like crap. But better. Dean just had that effect on him.

"I'm not going to ruin that with a response," Sam said, his voice slightly breaking.

"Good. I'm sure Shakespeare rolled over in his grave with…my speech there," Dean coughed a little before he found it manageable enough to laugh.

"Yeah. You're a real poet," Sam smiled. After everything they'd just been through, he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to smile again. He took his seat near Dean again and sighed.

"So…how's Dad?"

And the smile disappeared again.

Sam shifted, every muscle in his body tensed. So overtaken by the joy of seeing Dean awake, it made him forget the fact that John wasn't there. Sam knew John came by a few times the past two days that Dean was unconscious, and perhaps he even knew it was his warning glares that he shot to his father as he stood in the door that made John continue away from the room. Still, being angry and bothered by one son shouldn't keep you away from the other.

Even when he won't leave his side.

Sam hadn't spoken to their father since the fight. And John hadn't said a word to Sam. Sam had to give him some credit, though. He did overhear John talking to Dean's doctor.

Still, Sam didn't want to bother Dean with the knowledge that his brother and father weren't on speaking terms…again. But he didn't want to lie, either. He knew the elongated hesitation to answer was bugging Dean. Luckily, he didn't have to answer.

"I'm fine, son," John stepped into the room, or rather, limped. Physical therapy was already proving worth the time for John, although it'd be a little while before he could walk the way he used to. Doctors tell him he's lucky nothing major was severed in his leg. "How are you feeling, Dean?"

Dean flashed a small, but visibly smug and wholly Dean, grin.

"Kind of like…my Dad was possessed and tried to kill me."

John dared to return the token of humor with a laugh, but caught Sam glaring in the corner of his eye and decided that having one disabled leg was better than two, and kept serious.

"Really, Dean. You'll be okay?" John asked, taking another step closer. Dean did his best to shrug.

"I'm always okay, Dad."

"That's kind of a dumb question…" Sam couldn't resist the remark as it bitterly clawed out from inside him. It caught both John and Dean off guard. Sam immediately regretted letting it slip, but at the same time was glad he did. John didn't have the right to make this out to be anything less than what it was. This wasn't their typical forgive, forget, move on type of deal. "Dean almost dies, and all you ask is if he's okay, as if it's nothing?"

John grimaced.

"So first I'm the bad guy because I don't ask if he's okay, and now I'm the bad guy because I do ask?" The oldest Winchester huffed out. He muttered a few words below a heavy breath.

Dean tried to sit up a little in his bed. Although he was seriously confused, years of hearing all the words that went said and unsaid between his brother and father had taught him well enough to know when they were in a fight. "Um, did I miss something?"

Sam was about to say something, but John cut in first.

"Don't worry about it, Dean. I didn't come here to fight. I came here to say goodbye."

The very word cut, stung, burned, and like an infected wound once healed had been ripped back open.

"Goodbye?" Dean almost choked out. Sam clenched his fists unknowingly.

"You need to rest so you can recover. But that Demon is still out there. Seeing what it's done to you…I have to finish this. I need to find it, now more than ever."

"No!" Sam stood up. "You need to stay here, with us! With Dean!"

"You don't understand, Sam. You'll never understand. That thing is still out there, and it will come back for us—for you. I can't let that happen. I can't just sit around and wait for it to strike."

"You're in no condition to go back out and hunt it down. And you know that," Sam argued a valid point. Dean just watched the two of them fight like always, and he was stuck somewhere in between.

"I don't have a choice."

"Don't give me that! You always have a choice. You always say this isn't the life you wanted for us, but it's the life you chose. You don't get to choose the hunt over your sons. You don't get to just leave!" Sam said defiantly. Dean looked at him, watched as he trembled with unbridled anger, and he shrunk a little in Sam's shadow as he walked in front of Dean and faced their father in a defensive manner.

This time, Sam was the one standing up for him. Fighting with the words that Dean always wished he had the strength, the ability to say. Fighting with the secret fear of what hearing them out loud would actually do…

"You want to talk about choices? How about the choice you made when you walked out on this family! How dare you persecute me for the choices I had to make, the best choices I could make, when you were selfish and ran away from it all instead of facing it like a man…"

Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing. Then Dean couldn't believe what he was seeing, as Sam lunged forward, an unrestrained fist flying towards and swiping their father hard across the face. He watched as John stumbled backwards, taking brief solace as he impacted the wall with a force he could only identify with in his memories of taking off one hell of a pissed off poltergeist.

John was fast to push himself up from leaning against the wall for support, ready to raise a hand to his youngest son not only in defense but in his own wretched anger and sorrow and grief that he had no control over. And his fist held high in the air, his arm pulled back, and he watched as Sam prepared for the punch…but a muttered cry from his oldest son made him pause in his action. He looked at Dean, who stared into him with such a combination of horror and shame that it almost brought him to his knees.

"Stop…" Dean had said. Sam let go of his tightened jaw and relaxed his body, swiveling around and meeting Dean's gaze-switching back from him to their father. John slowly released his fist and dropped his arm to his side.

Dean heard enough. For years, he put up with the fighting, the disagreeing, that hateful comments. For years, he was stuck in the middle, the faithful mediator, the neutral bystander. For years he was a soldier, fighting for not the battle itself, but for his father's approval. For years, waiting for his brother to turn around and see him waiting, always waiting for him to come back. Dean has waited enough. He's fought enough. He's had enough.

"Dean…I'm sorry. But you understand why I have to go…" John was almost pleading for an affirmative response now, rather than the years that passed by where he could just expect it.

"Yeah, Dad…I understand," Dean began to say. "I'm tired of Sam and I watching you leave, wondering…when we'll see you…if…we'll see you. And if you walk out that door now—" Dean paused, glanced at Sam and then stared back at John, an unabashed sincerity in his voice. "Don't you ever come back."

There it was. Sam couldn't have said it better himself. Words that John had uttered as a cruel ultimatum to Sam just a few years ago, coming back to bite him in the ass, to feel the stinging pain they caused when spoken. Not just a threat, but a promise. Not just an angry father saying them, but a fed-up son, which in this case could possibly do more damage. And John might have expected to hear them from Sam, but not Dean.

And John saw the line that clearly divided the family. For so long he tried to believe that it wasn't there, there was nothing separating them but their differences, but there was something more. The bond between brothers was more evident than the bond between father and son. Part of John was appreciative of that. Part of him was afraid of that.

Sam made his choice long ago. And perhaps Dean had, too, only now the line was dug up and fortified and John couldn't pretend it wasn't there—that if given a choice, Dean would choose Sam. Dean would always choose Sam.

And John chose the hunt. He chose his revenge for the love of his life over his sons, possibly because he knew they were better together and did more for each other than John ever could. And probably because he knew revenge better than he knew Sam or Dean or family. And mostly because John was better at revenge than being a father.

Only because he wasn't afraid of monsters, but afraid of losing his sons. So it was always better if he kept himself less attached. But he never wanted it to come to this, not really.

He never wanted to push them away to keep them away forever. He just wanted a safe distance, until the fight was over. He never saw, until now, when he looked into Sam's eyes and when he looked into Dean's eyes, exactly what damage he'd done. He never saw it before. He didn't want to see it. And he couldn't look at it anymore.

Sam and Dean watched as the door closed behind their father, as he left, turned his back and just walked out. Dull nausea crept around in Sam's chest, and if he could spare a moment away from Dean he would have ran after. And Sam looked at Dean who didn't seem to take his eyes off the shut door. He couldn't help but wonder that maybe John knew he made a mistake and would come running back in, apologizing.

Sam didn't know what to say. He wanted to thank Dean for finally standing up to their father, but it just didn't seem right. It wasn't like Dean to say something so drastic. And Sam didn't want to imagine how Dean was feeling right now. He couldn't imagine how hard it must have been for him to say that. And Sam knew that he was to blame. If only he wasn't selfish, if only he chose to be the better man and step down, not fight with Dean right there as if he wasn't there—when he was always there. The hurtful words slung between him and John must have hurt Dean more, and it took all this for Sam to really see that.

Sam felt he deserved his guilt, his regret, but Dean did not. Sam would have given anything for Dean not to feel guilty.

"Dean…" no words could follow, and Sam's voice wasn't capable of chasing any down.

"I don't want to talk about it…" Dean finally said. His voice was timid but stern. The truth was, he wanted to talk about it, but knew it wouldn't solve anything, change anything. What's done was done, and that was it. And he didn't know what to say, either.

Dean struggled a moment as he turned over on his side, his breath stolen by the rigid movements, but Dean had to turn away from Sam…because there was a burning sensation in his eyes, and Sam couldn't see the tears.

Sam watched in agony as Dean turned on his side, his back facing him now. It was Dean's way of getting away from him without asking Sam to leave, and Sam could understand that. And he knew Dean deserved his space. He needed to deal with things, and he wouldn't want Sam's help…

But Sam couldn't stand it to watch as Dean started to shake, quiet sobs coming from somewhere in the corner of the room. And Dean would never admit to crying, would never allow Sam the pleasure of having a reason to hover over him and comfort him. It was Dean's job to give comfort, not Sam's.

Dean was supposed to be the big brother, the protector, not some crybaby who can't control the fact all he wants is to have a family that needs him as much as he needs them. He's never supposed to cry. And Sam's never supposed to see him cry.

A few more shudders from his older brother, a few more choking sobs and sighs, and Sam felt his own eyes well with tears. He knew he shouldn't, but he knew he should…and carefully took the first few steps to the other side of the bed. He saw Dean curl in tighter to himself, like a little boy huddling in a ball trying to escape the monsters hiding in the room with him. His eyes were shut, with shimmering tears falling from his dark lashes, his hands clenching the pillow.

Sam made his way to Dean. He knelt down beside him, taking Dean's shaking hands in his own and holding tight as his tears fell. Sam wanted to say something, anything, to make Dean stop crying. But part of Sam knew that Dean needed to cry, to let it out…because God knows what would happen if Dean continued to keep all his emotions locked inside.

At first, Dean flinched from Sam's touch, but quickly after he welcomed it, embraced it even. Sam tried to hush him, tried to hush his own tears and quiet cries.

"It's going to be okay, Dean…" Sam whispered softly. He laid his forehead onto Dean's, and Dean cried harder.

A lie was never so sweet sounding.

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To be continued…

Thanks for reading. And thanks to all who have read, and reviewed. I promise a happy ending for this story…and some redemption for John. He'll need it after this, I imagine. I hope to have the next part up quicker than this update. Thanks again for your patience and encouraging feedback!

Silver Kitten