A/N: I'm looking at about two chapters after this, I believe, and then this story will be wrapped up. This chapter tackles the issues that arise when John comes back into the picture. This chapter seems a little on the boring side to me, but there's some necessary emotional buildup, I think. I don't know. I'm going to stop trying to explain it and just let you read. Thanks yet again to the wonderful readers and reviewers who make this SO much fun. And this goes out with gratitude to Cati (I hope you haven't busted anything while skiing!).

Chapter Seven: Casted and Rehearsed

Dean heard his father before anything else. A demanding, almost angry voice was spewing orders down the hall. "My son--where's my son?"

Stifling a moan of dread, he caught his father just as he was raising his arms in frustration, ready to chew out the poor nurse trying to speak calmly from behind the desk.

"Dad," he said, pulling at his arm.

When his father finally recognized him, he forgot the girl, and let Dean lead him down the hallway.

"What happened?"

"His appendix ruptured--they got it out but he's got an infection."

"So what's that mean?"

"They're giving him antibiotics, monitoring him."

John seemed to be waiting. After a beat, he said, "That's it? That's all that can be done?"

Dean shrugged noncommittally, embarrassed. He could feel the anger rolling off his father.

"So how is he?"

Dean had been dreading this question most of all. This was the bottom line. "Not good."

John smacked the wall. "Dean, why didn't you tell me it was serious?"

Dean could hardly believe his ears. He snorted incredulously. "Are you joking?"

John did not look amused. "Why didn't you get him in here sooner? Why didn't you call me?"

"How?" Dean asked. "How was I supposed to call you?"

"It was an emergency, Dean."

"And I took him to the hospital."

"After almost five days," John said venomously.

Dean blanched, clenching his teeth, shocked rage coursing through him. "You told me it was nothing--you said he was faking, being a baby--" Dean couldn't finish his thought, sputtering over the incongruity of his father's sudden concern.

"I trusted you, Dean, to figure out Sam. I left him with you. He's your responsibility."

Dean's yell rippled throughout the waiting room. "He's your son!"

The curious glances made John shift uneasily, pulling Dean closer to him. "Watch yourself," he hissed.

Dean shook himself away. "Get away from me," he seethed back. "Why don't you just go home? Don't you have another hunt to get to?"

There was a brief flicker of hurt over his father's face and Dean regretted his words. He regretted them even more when the pain was replaced by a brutal anger. "At least then I'd be doing my job, which is more than I can say for you this weekend."

Dean visibly flinched from the impact of his father's words. Tears bit viciously at the back of his eyes and he found himself unable to speak. He backed away farther, desperately wanting to speak denial. Ashamed, he turned away, mutely leaving the waiting room.

He barely got around the corner when he realized he didn't know where he was going. He looked around, hoping to find direction, but the walls all looked the same and the people who hurried passed him blurred together into a chaotic mass of humanity.

When he pushed open the door to a stairwell, he sensed the stillness and solace of it, and he let himself collapse into the corner, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

He wasn't angry at his father. His father had always been preoccupied--ever since their mother died, he hadn't been all there. Dean knew this, Dean understood this, and Dean had taken it upon himself to be the father when John couldn't.

He couldn't blame the misjudgment of Sam's condition on John because John wasn't attuned to that kind of detail. John had given that responsibility to him when he was four-years-old, and he had carried it ever since, sometimes willingly, sometimes out of habit, sometimes because his father told him to. No matter his reasons, it was still his responsibility. He realized early on, that to shirk that responsibility would be to forfeit the heart, soul, and life of his baby brother. No matter how much he resented Sam from time to time, he knew he did not exist without his brother.

He let himself slide to the floor, feeling defeated. As much as he wanted to blame his father, he couldn't. He knew the truth: the blame fell solely on himself. He was Sam's protector, and no one else.

The night their mother died, each male Winchester was assigned a role. John was to be the avenger and the leader. He would provide the focus, the drive. He would dictate order and purpose. His word was law, unquestionable and concrete.

Sam was to be the innocent, the semblance of normalcy. He was their link to the real world, their compassion, their humanity. He represented what was worth protecting; he provided the necessary shades of gray to blur their father's black and white outlook.

Dean was the bond between the two. He was his father's second in command, which made him Sam's authority. Even when Sam resisted his father, he could still trust in Dean.

Dean had believed in this, trusting that adherence to that structure would keep them safe, make them whole. In some ways, it was a beautiful image, a picture of balance, of oneness.

But the oneness had ruptured, and he was beginning to see how infected they all had become.

Dean let his head fall to his knees.

The roles they played were nothing more than parts, hollow representations of life. They lied to each other a little bit more every day. They all retreated into themselves, into their own worlds, slowly shutting each other out, putting up facades to share with one another. John had locked himself away from his boys years ago, mostly when Mary died, but more and more as they grew older and lost that spark of innocence. Dean followed where his father led, and denied himself in order to make everyone around him happy. Sam struggled and rebelled. It was no longer clear who he really was and who he simply didn't want to be.

The lies were like self-inflicted wounds, slowly eating away at who they were, destroying the essence that was their family. But it was denial that allowed it to continue unhindered. It was clear they were slowly self-destructing, but all of them were too wrapped up in maintaining the illusion of control to really stop it from happening.

Somewhere deep inside, they all knew this. They all knew how fine a line they walked. If one of them were to fall, the other two would come tumbling after.

Dean was holding onto Sam with all his might, but it was his brother's choice, his brother's decision now.

With a steadying breath, he stood, to return to his brother, trying not to think about how it was only a matter of time before it fell apart, before his perfect family was beyond salvaging.

But not today. Please, Sammy, not today.

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John had not taken Dean's word for Sam's condition, but had immediately sought out his doctor. By the time Dean returned to Sam's room, he found his father stationed securely by Sam's side.

The doctor had offered nothing new about Sam's condition. His kid brother still fought the infection that seemed to be gripping him like a vice, showing no signs of letting up. As time slipped by, Dean noted with concern that Sam's lapses of coherency seemed to grow further and further apart, leaving the tension between Dean and his father to grow deeper and more volatile.

John had a strange pattern in hospitals. Sometimes, he was voraciously vigilant, never leaving the room, watching every monitor, noticing every blip that seemed abnormal, comforting every slight moan that might escape the person on the bed.

But between his bouts of sincere parenting, he became dark and elusive, disappearing for hours at a time. Dean didn't know what it was that made him leave, and Dean never knew where he went, but knew to let him go, let him be, until he was able to come back and play the concerned father again.

After a few short hours by Sam's bedside, John had left, mumbling something incoherent about bathrooms. Dean watched him go without a word, continuing his post by Sam's side.

Only a few minutes had passed, when he noticed more movement coming from his brother. Dean straightened himself, leaning in to see what would happen.

Sam's eyes rolled under his lids as he tossed weakly in the bed. He blinked once, almost imperceptibly, then again, this time staying open.

Dean let himself grin. Sam had not shown any awareness for hours, and it was good to see some movement, however meager it may have been. "Hey, kiddo, what are you doing awake?"

Sam's eyelids drifted heavily. "Dean?"

"Yeah," he said, softly touching his brother's brow. The skin was still hot to the touch, Sam's forehead creased in familiar lines of pain. "You need to be getting your rest."

Sam sucked in a shallow breath with effort. "I'm tired, Dean."

"Course you are, Sammy," Dean said. "You've been through a lot."

"What's wrong with me?"

The question unsettled Dean and he frowned as he let his hand absorb the heat from Sam's fever. His brother's eyelids were at half-mast, revealing cloudy hazel irises. "Don't you remember?"

Sam appeared deep in thought for a moment. "Appendix?"

"Yep, only you can't do things the easy way. Got to make it difficult. You got an infection. Pretty bad one, which is probably why you feel out of it."

Sam nodded distantly, letting his eyes fall shut for a long beat before he looked at his brother again. "…it's cold, Dean."

Dean pulled at the blankets, hiking them up higher on Sam's body. "Yeah, I know. Sorry about that, buddy. I'll see if I can find another blanket."

Sam's focused seemed limited. He scrunched his nose up. "How long?"

"In the hospital?" Dean guessed, moving his hand down to take Sam's. "Since Monday. It's Wednesday."

Shutting his eyes again, Sam seemed to drift back into his feverish sleep. Dean was about to sit back in his chair when Sam's murmuring stopped him. "…not your fault…"

"Sammy?"

Sam blinked wearily, his eyes clearing with sudden coherency. "Not your fault."

"What are you talking about?"

"This," he said. "You can't fix everything. Sometimes you've just got to let go."

Dean's heart pounded and he refused to blink as he stared in his brother's eyes. Sam held his gaze a moment longer before his eyes seemed to glaze again.

"…let go…." Sam's voice was little more than a breath, vanishing into the sterile hospital air before Sam slipped back into sleep.

Still with his hand holding his brother's, Dean struggled to breathe. How could Sam know? How could Sam understand the guilt that had chased him up and down the halls of the hospital while he waited for Sam's condition to improve?

Letting go was not a Winchester trait. Letting go represented the antithesis of their family lifestyle. There was too much baggage, too much already in place, his world was too carefully constructed for him to let go.

When his father finally returned, Dean was still perched on the chair, his hand holding Sam's, showing no signs of loosening its grip.