A/N: Happy New Year!
Guys, I promise I am writing this story as fast as I can. But this cold is kicking my butt. Winter sucks.
John knew he was an asshole. He didn't need Jim to tell him that. Sam had every right to a life that he wanted, a life that made him happy. He still thought Sam was being selfish for leaving hunting to pursue that life, but he could hardly fault the kid for going after what he deserved.
But what struck John was the change in Sam. They'd been together for more than twenty-four hours now, and the only argument they'd had was when John had told Sam to get rid of Jess. Sam didn't engage his father, which broke John's heart. But he knew he deserved it. John wanted more than anything to take back all the vicious things he'd said to Sam the night of the fight. He hadn't meant any of them. He was incredibly proud of Sam's accomplishment getting into Stanford. He loved the fact that Sam was brave enough to stand up to him. Not that John would ever tell him that.
Which, of course, was the crux of the problem. John Winchester just didn't do talking. Not meaningful talking, anyway. He was more than adept at commanding a room, getting mostly everyone to do what he wanted. His style of talking worked, or at least seemed to work, with Dean, who flourished under his military style discipline. But it had always had the opposite effect on Sam. Sam needed patience, gentleness, and sensitivity. All the things that John just didn't know how to give, or at least fake giving him.
Sitting in the room Jim had set up for John and Dean, John did a lot of thinking. He held a photo in his hands of Sam and Dean at Jim's house, ages ten and six. They were in the middle of Jim's living room, a mountain of wrapping paper around them, huge grins on the both of their faces. Jim had given Sam and Dean a Christmas that year, just like he was doing again this year. John remembered getting home that Christmas night and nearly being mowed down by an energetic Sammy.
"Daddy! Look, Santa came! Come on, come on, come see!"
John had wondered in the months since Sam left where the little boy barely bigger than his father's knee who loved and adored him had gone. Of course, every time he wondered that question, the answer would come back in flashbacks. Flashbacks of him having nothing positive at all to say to Sam.
You're too slow, Sam.
Why can't you be more like your brother?
We don't have time to go to your play, Sam. Stop being selfish. People are dying.
John had always known the truth of where Sam had gone. He knew exactly what Sam needed. But Sam reminded him too much of Mary. And every time he and Sam fought, and John let Sam down in some way, all he saw was Mary's disappointed eyes reflecting back at him. Which led to the barking, and the yelling, and the snapping, and the distance.
"Dad?"
John jumped. Dean was in the doorway. "What?" he snapped, harsher than he intended to.
"Um, sorry. But lunch is ready."
"Right. Sorry, son. You just startled me." John said, placing the photo back on the dresser. "Where's your brother?"
"Outside." Dean answered.
"Doing what?"
"Talking to his girlfriend on the phone." Dean said.
John nodded. "Of course he is."
Dean sighed. "Dad…"
"Let's get lunch, Dean." John said.
"Yes, sir." Dean said, disappointed. "I'll go get Sam."
"No. I'll get him." John said.
Dean looked skeptical, but went back towards the kitchen. John stepped outside and heard Sam before he saw him. Sam was sitting on the corner of the bottom step of the staircase, the phone to his ear, and John was not prepared for what he heard.
"My Dad won't so much as look at me…I know, but…You're really luck to have parents that care about you no matter what…"
Sam's voice broke, and John saw him wipe his face. Damn it, Mary. How did I screw this up so badly?
"Sure, I'll talk to her. Hang on." Sam pressed the speaker button on the phone. "Hi, Mrs. Moore."
A woman's voice that John had never heard before filled the air. "Sam, I told you before, it's Leslie."
Sam smiled. "Hi, Leslie."
"Are you crying, Sam?" Leslie said. "It's okay if you are."
"I'm trying not to." Sam admitted.
"Listen to me, Sam. I don't know what's going on in your father's mind. But I told you before, and I'll tell you again. You are a good boy. A good man. And you deserve the very best that life has to offer. And as long as Lloyd and I are breathing, even if, God forbid, it doesn't work between you and Jess, you will never be without a mom or a dad again. Understand?"
"I understand. Thank you." Sam said. "Thank you. I really, really needed to hear that right now."
"This might be a little awkward to hear from a woman you've only met a few times, but I mean it. We love you, Sam. All of us."
"Love you guys too." Sam said. "Bye."
John couldn't take the intense guilt bubbling up inside him. "Sammy."
Sam turned and his eyes registered anger at his father. "Were you eavesdropping?"
"No. I came to tell you lunch is ready."
"I'll be there in a minute." Sam said.
"Sam…" John said.
Sam picked up the phone and started back to the house.
"Sam, please, just let me talk." John said.
"Dad, don't do this. Please."
"Don't do what?" John asked. "Talk to you?"
"Is that what you want? Do you want to talk to me, or do you want to order me, again, to get rid of Jess?"
"Sam, please just listen." John said. "Look, I'm glad you found someone too. I am. But I just don't want what happened to me to happen to you."
"So you'd rather I just avoid any chance that something might happen and go ahead and be miserable."
"You know, better than most, what your mom's death did to me." John said. "Don't do that to yourself."
"Actually, no. I don't know what losing mom did to you. Because the only Dad I've ever known is the one who tries to control every bit of how I live my life."
John's thin string of patience snapped. "Damn it, Sam, fine! Do whatever the hell you want, just don't call me when it all comes crashing down around you!"
"Believe me, Dad, I won't make the mistake of asking my father to support me in anything. I know that's way too much to ask."
"What is going on out here?" Jim had heard John and Sam arguing all the way in the kitchen. "I could hear you two all the way back in the kitchen."
"Dad's trying to make me leave Jess again."
"I am not. I just pointed out that…"
"ENOUGH!" Jim shouted, raising his voice and his hand to silence the two of them. "Both of you, in the kitchen, now."
Jim's outburst was enough to quiet any objection from Sam or John, but not enough to quell the scowls off their faces. It was clear to Dean that this, whatever it was, was going to determine the future of the relationship between the three of them. Sam took a seat at one end of the table, John on the other. Dean stood at the kitchen door, praying that John or, less likely, Sam, wouldn't screw this up. Jim took his seat between the two of them.
"Okay. We're hashing this out now."
"Jim, there's nothing to talk about." John said, crossing his arms over his chest and reminding Jim amazingly of a pouting Sammy.
"There's plenty to talk about and you know it." Jim said. "Sam, you first. What do you need from your dad?"
Sam was staring at the table, clearly too shy to say anything.
"Well, come on, Sam. Tell me, again, how I've let you down." John snapped.
"That's it." Jim said. "Sam, I really hope you don't hate me after this."
"Hate you after what?"
"I've asked you before and I'll ask you again. Do you trust me?" Jim asked.
"Yes. I do." Sam said.
"Good. Because I need to break a confidence you asked me to keep years ago. One that involves your dad and Dean. Do you know what I'm talking about?"
Sam considered a long few seconds before answering. "I do know. But I don't want to guilt him into anything."
"He needs to know, Sam. I won't tell him if you really don't want me to. But I really think he needs to know. It's time."
"Time for what?" John snapped at the both of them. "What is going on?"
Sam bit back his irritation and answered calmly, "Tell him."
Jim nodded and turned back to John. "Do you remember when Sam was fourteen and he caught pneumonia?"
"Of course I do. He nearly died." John said. "What's that got to do with this?"
"Do you know why he caught pneumonia?" Jim asked. At John's clueless look, Jim shook his head. "I can't believe you never figured it out."
"Figured what out?"
"Two weeks before Sam was diagnosed, you and Dean were attacked by that werewolf. Your wounds both got infected." Jim said.
"Yeah…" John answered.
"John, it was below zero and snowing that day. How do you think you and Dean got your prescriptions?"
"We thought you got 'em." Dean said, speaking for the first time since the confrontation had started.
"Nope. That's what Sam asked me to tell you. But my car wouldn't start that night, and you two were developing a fever and hurting something fierce. Sam got pneumonia because he walked a mile in the cold and the snow to get your prescriptions so that you two could get some sleep."
John and Dean both stared at Sam, mouths gaping in astonishment.
"And while you two sit there with your mouths dragging the floor, I have something else to show you."
Jim pulled his wallet out of his pocket and pulled out a picture he kept in there. He glanced at it for a long moment before handing it to John. It was an old snapshot of a woman and a little boy. The woman was beautiful, with long, brown, curly hair, wearing a yellow sweater and red jeans. The little boy had the same color hair, and looked to be about four years old, wrapping both arms around what John assumed was his mother's legs.
"Who is this?" John asked.
Jim's answer nearly knocked John to the floor. "They're my wife and my son."