The look on Dean's face as he fell back into his evil half almost stopped John's heart. It was as if everything the man had felt in his life, all the pain he'd secretly endured, the loneliness he'd been forced to carry, was finally visible. It hurt him to see his son look like that, hurt him to see the young man that had saved his life on more than one occasion feel that bad.
But he couldn't show emotion, couldn't portray the sick grief that filled his heart. Emotion was weakness. He'd taught Dean that lesson long ago, soon after Mary's death. You can't cry just because it hurts. It won't do anything to help.
He watched, finally lowering the gun, as Dean slumped forward, his own, deep bullet wound, one that went all the way through his muscular body, touching the shallower hole that had formed in the other man's chest. A blast of wind emanated from the two men as they slid down the wall. The room was suddenly filled a bright white light, as if an explosion had gone off. Then, everything was still, silence filled the room.
"Dad," Sammy muttered, staring at the man that lay alone on the floor, clad in a bloody white t-shirt and dark leather jacket, "dad, you shot him. You shot Dean."
John nodded as his youngest son rushed to the other man's limp body. "Wound-to-wound contact. It was the only thing that would put him back together, but they had to want to be one again. The evil one was too weak to fight, and the good one… well, he wanted to be able to make me proud again, didn't he?"
"Dad," Sam growled, cradling his brother broken and bloodied body in his arms, "you shot him in the heart."
"You're leaving?" Sam hissed, wanting to yell but knowing that he couldn't. Shouting was frowned upon in hospitals. "Now? He hasn't even woken up yet. Dad, you shot him, I think you owe it to him to be there when he wakes up."
John shook his head. "I was in the middle of a job when he called me, Sam. I have to finish it."
"Can't it just wait another day?" Sam asked. They'd taken Dean to the hospital immediately following the fight in the basement, and he'd been rushed into surgery. Fortunately, the wound made by the knife hadn't been too deep, and the bullet had only grazed the hunter's heart. He'd been unconscious for most of the day, though. Now, Sam and his father were busy arguing outside his room.
"I'm sorry. But, listen, son, what I did back there… it was for the best. I know you don't think so now, but soon you'll see. Yes, I shot him. But it got him back together, didn't it? And, from what I gather, he won't remember anything. Nothing from the past month, anyway. No splitting, just an explosion and then waking up in a hospital."
"How am I going to explain the bullet hole, dad? The stitches in his side from the knife?"
"You'll think of something," John smiled, turning to leave.
Sam sighed, looking through the window at his brother, who lay motionless in the bed. "This is all your fault, you know that, right? The murderer, the nice guy. You made them both with your training and tough love. If it wasn't for you, this never would have happened to him."
The older man stopped walking and sighed, gazing steadily at his feet. "Yeah, I know that. I've known that for a while. This is just the first time I've been faced with it, and it's not what I thought it would be. Did I know I messed him up? Yes. Did I know that I'd ruined him like that? No, never in my wildest nightmares could I have imagined the kinds of things that go on inside that twisted head of his."
"You… you always knew you'd…?"
"Yeah, Sammy, I did. And I learned something these past couple of days. My oldest son is a wreck, a tortured human being with half a soul, and it's all my fault. You know what else I learned? I can't face it. What I've done to him, I just can't face it. That's why I have to go. So, um, don't tell him what happened here or in Onyx, all right? He doesn't deserve to know."
Sam watched his father walk away, considering everything the man had said. Was it true? Did he really know the full extent of the damage he'd dealt his son, or was he lying, trying to find an excuse to avoid an unpleasant situation.
Sighing, Sammy trudged into his brother's room and sat down in an uncomfortable plastic chair by the bed.
"Hey," Dean muttered, "what happened?"
"You don't remember?" Sam asked.
Dean sighed. "Seems like a nightmare, huh? You'd think two of me would be a good thing, but…"
"Everything?"
"From explosions, to gunshots," Dean nodded weakly, glancing at his chest, "yeah. Where's dad?"
"He, uh, he had to leave. He was in the middle of something when you called him away."
"Oh. That's cool. Yeah, he should finish that up. Make sure no one else dies."
Sam sighed, hanging his head. "We're not going to talk about this, are we?"
"Tale about what?" Dean asked, grabbing a small remote control off the table by his bed and clicking on the tiny TV set mounted to the wall.
Sam shook his head and smiled, looking up to see a commercial for a new TV station that was the result of a merger. "You know," he began after a short silence, "I haven't seen a commercial for Snuggles fabric softener in a while."
"Yeah," Dean nodded, "you're welcome." The brothers laughed, knowing that they were safe, whole, and together, and hoping that never changed.
"Falling faster, barely breathing
Give me something to believe in
Tell me it's not all in my head
Take what's left of this man
Make me whole once again"
"What's Left of Me" -Nick Lachey