Disclaimer, Summary & Rating: Please see Chapter 1.

MILES TO GO BEFORE I SLEEP

Chapter 9

Dean blinked slowly, for a moment disoriented at the darkness. He focussed on the clock on the wall, which told him it was just gone two-thirty in the morning.

He felt a lot more clear-headed than on previous occasions, though still with that feeling of slightly-detached 'mellow' that indicated some narcotic intake. He could also feel increased stiffness in his body and definite – albeit faint – itching/throbbing from his wounds that would doubtless be a lot more assertive when they took him off the pain medication altogether. Oh what anticipatory joy.

Once again his hand felt like it was resting on a hot water bottle so…

"Dad?"

"Hey," John Winchester, sat in the chair in front of the window, leaned forward, his perpetually sad brown eyes unfathomable in the gloom. He nodded at Dean's clean lower face, "Something for the weekend, huh?"

"Maybe next weekend," Dean smiled back.

He wasn't drugged enough to be hallucinating and a demon would have killed him by now; ergo, to use that fancy Latin word of Sam's, dad actually was dad. In which case…

"I'm sorry, sir."

John Winchester blinked rapidly at this penitent admission. "What do you mean, son?"

Dean looked at the bedcovers, not wanting to see his father's anger, or worse, disappointment in how much Dean had let him down. "About Chicago…I should've known something was whack with Meg Masters showing up out of nowhere. Even Sammy said that those sorts of coincidences don't happen to our family. I didn't figure it out in time to stop her hurting Sam…and she came damn close to killing you as well…I'm sorry, dad."

There was silence for several seconds and inwardly Dean cringed. He was the older brother, the firstborn son. It was his responsibility to watch his father's back and get between bad and his brother, and he had failed in both of those duties – sacred trusts – for no better reason than the Big Bad had been a pretty young blond thing instead of a skanky fiend with reptilian skin and humongous B.O. Sam's past wisecracks about him thinking with what was between his legs rather than his ears had suddenly struck home, too hard. One glance at Miss American as Apple Pie and he'd stopped being cautious, suspicious or in any way sensible as Maniacal Meg had led him around by his gonads – and his brother and father had paid the price for his dereliction.

"Dean…" the voice was quiet, and not harsh. "Dean…Look at me, son."

Reluctantly Dean raised his head and met his father's gaze; John Winchester's eyes were warm with…affection?

"Dean, you were in no way at fault…ever." John saw the shadows that moved in his son's eyes at that final word but knew they were the same as those in his own – survivor guilt, Missouri Moseley had explained.

There was nothing he could have done, no way he could have known, no way he could have fought back and won – then – against Mary's murderer, but grief didn't give a damn about logic. If only he hadn't fallen asleep in front of the TV…if only he had got up to see to Sam…if only they had never settled in Lawrence in the first place. People who survived terrible disasters or atrocities – the Twin Towers or the Nazi extermination camps like Auschwitz – all experienced that constant guilt that they had lived when women/children/others had died, and were tormented by the question – why me? What's so special about me, that I should be spared?

"But Dad I…"

"Dean," John spoke as loudly as he dared in the quiet, acutely conscious of Sam's imminent return from the cafeteria where Nurse Castle had chivvied him, but he enunciated clearly, "I have never been more proud of you than I was in Chicago. I am not disappointed in you and I never have been."

Dean stared at him with a look of such pole-axed astonishment that John wanted to weep for his brave, tough, confident, strong son…with his self-esteem like pancake and an inferiority complex the size of the Grand Canyon.

"Never?" such hope…daddy, say you love me…a plea uttered in a single word.

John squeezed his son's hand. "Dean…it's easy to obey orders and follow commands when you know the rationale, the reasons why. It's a lot harder to obey when you're not told what's going on." He looked at his son squarely, "I wish I could always take the time to explain, but sometimes that isn't possible. But you have always done as I've asked. That you obeyed me even when you didn't necessarily agree with my order nor really understand why I was asking of you what I did shows how much you trusted in me enough to believe that I knew what I was doing. That means far more to me than you can ever imagine."

Part of Dean was glad it was dark as he felt his cheeks heat with stunned delight; he blinked rapidly as his stupid eyes suddenly became moist; Dean Winchester did not bawl like a baby. He had never even dreamed he would ever receive such benediction, had hoped only for the occasional 'good job, boy' accompanied by a clap on the back if he was lucky…he had long ago simply assumed that he was the expendable son. Certainly he was loved, but loved less, and to be honest he didn't really mind that fact. He loved Sammy more than anything in the world, so how could he blame Dad for his greater affection too?

But he had to make sure that dad understood, "Sammy trusts you too, dad, he's just upset and scared and you know how that makes him…"

John Winchester kept his face calm even though he wanted nothing more than to hug his son tightly. He had followed Dean's train of thought as if it were writ large in neon. It was part of the reason why he was here; to help make sure that Dean's emotional health was – at least partially – as healed as his physical health. But, like always, he would have to restore the balance of power between his sons from behind the scenes.

"Of course I know – where you do think he gets it from? Your mom would never indulge what she called my macho hissy fits." John smiled at the bitter-sweet memories – Mary had never tolerated male intransigence. "Sam wants to protect me…and help me…but he knows it's too dangerous for us three to be too close right now. It's easier to be angry than to be afraid so…he vents…a lot."

Dean smiled back, feeling the tension lessen; it was important that Dad knew how much Sam cared about him. He hated the way they used to fight; tearing at each other with words instead of fists could be an even more brutal conflict than two guys pounding each other to pulp, and most people didn't realise it. Like dad had admitted, he and Sam were too alike in that way.

John sighed and shifted his weight in the chair, arching his back. "I should be going…"

"Just five more minutes?" Dean had no control as the words were just out of his mouth without his conscious decision.

For a moment John hesitated and Dean braced himself for a gentle refusal, but after a moment his father relaxed in his chair. "I guess a few more minutes won't hurt."

Dean knew he had a huge, happy smile on his face and didn't particularly care as he just lay quietly, basking in the presence and security of having his dad next to him…

Chapter 10

Dean scowled as the irritation finally dragged him from slumber. Would someone please fix that radiator…Blinking the sleep from his eyes he looked at the clock, which informed him it was now five-thirty in the morning.

Nobody should be awake at five-thirty in the morning. There oughta be a law… but the wheezing was coming from somewhere close by. He turned and looked and saw…

Dad. Still in the same chair. Mouth open, nostrils flaring, chest rasping. He was also going to have one beautiful crick in the neck, though someone had attempted to alleviate things by putting a cushion between his head and his shoulder and covering him with a thin blanket.

Though – Dean certainly hadn't done it, and it was unlikely a staff member would have, which left…He turned his head to the other side. In the chair nearest the door sat Sam, also sound asleep and wheezing rhythmically in time with their father's exhalations as he gave Dean a bird's eye view of his tonsils.

Dean resolutely closed his eyes but immediately opened them again. No way was he going to get back to sleep with this pair serenading him from each side. He experienced a slightly mushy feeling that he firmly squashed as he saw how alike they were in sleep, despite their mutual conflict when awake.

Although, Dean suddenly thought of another reason why the Bible forbade people having sex before marriage – the Good Lord surely knew that for anyone indulging in some naughty pre-nuptial nookie, waking up to the sight of a drooling snorer – or should that be snoring drooler? – was more than enough to permanently put them off the idea of waking up to the same sight every day for the next eighty-odd years. A divine command to keep your pants zipped until the wedding night gave you no chance to back out when you saw what was lying next to you the following morning.

He looked from father to brother and felt a pang of guilt. With bed-head hair and last night's make-up, some of his own bed mates had looked a lot less sexy in the cold light of day, but Dean had never before considered the visual he had presented to some poor chick blearily cracking open her mascara-gummed eyes after five solid hours of vodka-induced unconsciousness. If these two were representative of the Winchester men in repose, it was highly likely that the woman had been thinking, 'Oh my god, I slept with that?' just as much as he had. Belatedly, he sent a mental apology to every chick he had hustled out of an apartment/hotel/motel because at nine in the a.m. she'd no longer looked like Jennifer Aniston or Jada Pinkett-Smith realising now they had been probably been just as eager to leave the Heath Ledger/Matt Damon dude who had suddenly become Oliver Reed or Seinfeld's freak neighbour.

He had been awake for barely thirty seconds when Sam, with that preternatural awareness that had always existed between the brothers, woke instantly, looking immediately towards Dean to assess his condition. He shifted in the chair and winced as he stretched.

As Sam stirred, so did John Winchester, stretching in his chair and stopping as he started to straighten up with a groan, rubbing his neck and rotating his shoulder. "Aww."

Sam stood up from his chair, "Dad, tilt your head forward."

Obediently John did so and Sam moved behind his father, placing his hands evenly either side John's neck and using his thumbs and fingertips to give a gentle circular massage that made John's eyes almost cross with bliss.

"Dad, you're drooling," Dean chided good-humouredly.

Sam sniggered and stepped away as John arched and stretched till his joints popped. "That was wonderful…" He shook his head, "I keeping hoping if I persevere my body will forget I'm about thirty years too late for sleeping in the back of a car…"

"Bring your gear to Room 93 at the Beech Motel," Sam offered promptly, "it's a twin-bedded room and after Dean, you can't have any habits that would gross me out."

"Thanks," John accepted with grateful alacrity.

As the moment lingered, stilted awkwardness materialised in full diva costume for a virtuoso performance, only to be yanked abruptly off stage by the shepherd's crook of the hospital room door clicking as the knob gave a slight rattle.

Instantly Sam and John's heads snapped towards the door, their stances shifting and almost swelling as they prepared to defend. At that moment both were pure predators. Nurse Ruth Castle, sticking her head around the door, suddenly saw them overlaid with the image of powerful lions, dangerous and all tamped down menace to protect the injured one of their pride. She blinked and instantly the image was gone. Sam's welcome smile restored his face to such boyishness that you could – almost – believe you had imagined the merciless eyes and the coiled lethality, but ancient instincts that once warned about sabre-toothed danger had just suddenly woken up and smelled the coffee. Ruth continued to smile but did not venture further into the room and didn't make any sharp movements, suppressing an urge to mutter, 'nice kitties, don't eat the friendly nurse'.

"I just wanted to see if you were all awake. Dr Field was wishing to come and see you as early as possible this morning, if that's all right with you?"

"Fine…is there a problem?" Sam asked.

"Oh no, it's about Dean's physiotherapy. I'll fetch him." She withdrew.

Physiotherapy…Dean bit his lip... they didn't have the time, they didn't have the money. "I'll be okay," he stated, "as soon as the cuts have healed up. I don't need any Physio, Dad –"

Sam instantly bristled, glaring at their father as he retorted to his brother's weak claim, "You came within an inch of losing your left arm and leg, not to mention singing soprano!" His voice rose more stridently as he silently challenged their father. "You're not leaving this hospital until you're fit enough to do cartwheels!"

John Winchester was acutely aware of the way the water carafe on the bedside cabinet next to Dean trembled slightly, like that scene with the glass of water in Jurassic Park where Jeff Goldblum realises the T-Rex is a-comin'. Neither of his sons noticed it at all, and John kept his attention firmly focussed on Sam.

"Dad, really, I –"

"No Dean," John vetoed firmly, "Sam's right. You need to leave here in the best shape you can, and that means physio."

Under any other circumstances, his sons' comical twin expressions of astonishment at his siding with Sam would have been, well, comical.

But right now John's heart twisted at the flash of relief Dean couldn't hide as he acknowledged his own past guilt in often treating an injured Dean like a Marine PFC instead of the child he'd been.

Sam opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, uncertain what to do now the fight he'd been ready for simply didn't materialise, but at that moment there was a brisk knock heralding the entry of Nurse Castle and Dr Field.

Continued in Chapter 11…

© 2006, Catherine D Stewart