A/N: I can't believe I'm to the second to last chapter already! Thanks again for the reviews--some of you have really taken some time to respond and I can't thank you enough. The thoughtfulness of some of the reviews has really amazed me. Credit as always goes to Cati (who STILL isn't home yet...I've had to wander around all weekend and think about Sam's arms all by myself...I thought about talking to my husband about it but I have a feeling he wouldn't understand...).

Chapter Eight: Letting Go

The hospital room seemed to be in a state of perpetual twilight, dimly lit, all natural light and darkness squelched by the blinds. It made Dean feel tired, chronically tired, but he wouldn't let himself sleep.

Sam had not awoken again, and it worried Dean. His brother's pallor remained the same sickly shade of gray, and he seemed to be melting into the bed. His breaths had become labored and rasping.

John came and went, sometimes sitting by Dean, his presence bolstering his resolve to stay strong. It was when John left, when he was wandering, that Dean felt weak, like falling apart.

The nurses came and went and Dean had lost interest to the point that he could not even bring himself to smile at Catherine when she stopped by. When Dr. Hepker returned yet again, he looked unusually serious, a frown tugging his lips downward.

"He's in septic shock," the doctor said, moving the stethoscope one last time, listening to Sam's lungs. "We can try another antibiotic, but if Sam's body doesn't respond, there's not much more we can do. At this rate, we're going to have to intubate him to help support his breathing."

His father was here, and Dean was grateful to not have to be the adult this time.

John didn't care about what-ifs or worst case scenarios. He wanted the odds. "What's the prognosis?"

The doctor hesitated, a debate flickering through his eyes. "The mortality rate for septic shock is high--around 50. Sam is young, but his body's been through a lot. If his organs start to shut down, then we're looking at much more invasive procedures to keep him alive. Only time will tell."

The answer was not what John wanted.

"I'm sorry I can't give you better or even more specific news," Dr. Hepker said. "We're doing everything we can for him. I'll check on him frequently. Please, page me if you have any questions."

John murmured a thanks as the doctor left them. The three Winchesters plunged into a tense silence. Sam was on the bed, asleep or unconsciousness or a combination of both. John remained unmoving in his post by his son's side, his eyes staring straight through the paleness of his younger son's complexion. Dean stood stiffly in the corner, watching his father and his brother, unable to think.

Dean's vision dimmed with anger. His jaw twitched as he tried to keep himself from kicking something.

John was still standing by Sam's bedside, the doctor's diagnosis slowly settling into his mind. After a long moment, he looked up at his oldest child. "Dean--"

Dean shook his head vehemently, knowing instinctively what his father was going to say. He'd heard it too often in the past, and he just wasn't up for it this time. "Don't."

"Dean--"

"No," Dean insisted. "Don't stand there and try to tell me it's okay."

John composed himself, keeping his voice even and soft. "Dean--"

His father's calm infuriated Dean. "No, you weren't there, you're never there, and you can't sit there and tell me everything will be alright. I can't hear another platitude come out of your mouth. I can't stand to listen to excuses, lies--I can't even take another session of guilt trip because I didn't catch this sooner. I don't care. We did this to him, and that's not okay."

Dean's words struck a chord within his father, and he visibly darkened. "Son, you better watch yourself. We do what we can. We do what we have to do. You missed this one, and maybe I did too. We have our blame in it, but we'll get through this."

Dean released a strangled laugh. "How many times have we been here, Dad? How many?" His voice was taunting, jaded.

"Who are you looking to blame? And what good is it going to do?"

Dean shook his head with a half-smirk. "Sometimes we're so busy looking for something to kill, something to fight, that we forget to look at the stuff that really matters."

"What's more important than justice for your mother's killer? You know why we do what we do."

"How about Sam's life? How about Sam's needs and wants and desires? He's not like us, Dad, and I'm not sure he'll ever be. Hell, he shouldn't have to be. What's the point of fighting if we lose track of each other?"

"I'm doing this for you boys," John growled.

Dean swallowed back his protests, realizing finally just how useless they were. He understood his father's role, and he understood his own. While they both wanted to save Sam, he knew that, in many ways, they were always trying to save him from different things.

Resignation overwhelmed him and he collapsed heavily into a chair. "If we lose Sam…." He couldn't finish, the tears burned his eyes. He looked down, trying to hide it.

John moved from Sam side, moving toward his eldest son. "We're not going to lose Sammy," John said definitively.

"Come on, Dad--"

"No, Dean, listen to me," he said. "We won't lose Sammy."

Dean looked up. His cheeks glistened with tears. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because you're here, Dean. And Sammy could never leave you."

There was a quiet certainty in his father's voice. Dean wanted to believe him, wanted to take solace in his words of comfort, but the tendrils of doubt had already taken root in the back of his mind.

0000000000000

Sam's breathing was harsh, grating as he worked to take each one in and push it back out again.

But it was still Sam breathing--all Sam. The doctor looked concerned, checking Sam often, but his reports were always the same, always with that warning that in a few hours things could get much, much worse.

Dean dared to hope. As much as Sam resisted hunting, he was still a Winchester through and through. Sam seemed too defiant to abide by the ill predictions of a medical doctor, too rebellious to let some superfluous organ take him down.

But every time Dean ventured to hope, he would see the colorless hue of Sam's skin, see the monitors the beeped noncommittally, see the oxygen mask the covered Sam's face. It shook him, the fragile appearance of his brother, the delicate grip by which seemed to barely be clinging to life.

He studied his father, who was curled up awkwardly in the chair, his chest rising rhythmically in sleep. The realization hit him: his father had no idea if Sam would live or die. Not really. No promise he could make could ensure Sam's survival or anything else. It was just another lie, just another aspect of the part he played, the mask he wore.

In a rush, Dean felt slighted, disillusioned. But as his eyes wandered from his father to his brother, he realized that they had nothing else to fall back on. They had spent 16 years building these roles, believing in these lies, denying these truths.

If it cost Sammy his life…Dean didn't know what he'd do. He didn't know if he could face his responsibility in what had happened to Sam, how his role had made his brother downplay his symptoms, how his lies had kept Sam at home, how his denial had refused to see it until it was too late.

Part of Dean wanted to promise, vow right now to change, to be honest and truthful about everything, admit to the hurt, admit to his fears, admit to everything that he so carefully repressed. And he would do it, he knew, if he thought that would save Sam somehow.

But honesty wouldn't save Sam now. The lies and denial went too deep--to the core of who they were; it couldn't be fixed with a last minute change of heart.

For the moment, Sam's condition was out his hands. He had let it get this far, he had trusted in all the wrong things too long, and he had no where else to turn.

He looked back at his father, and believed his lie, denying desperately the truth that screamed in his mind. Sometimes you've just got to let go.