John sank down to the ground and closed his eyes. After a few seconds, his bowed head came up and he looked at the gravestone in front of him, his face expressionless.
"Mary." His voice was gravelly. "Mary, I'm so sorry."
He sat for a few more minutes, before standing up and brushing off his jeans. He turned his back on the grave and the mound big enough for a three-year-old next to it and walked back to the Impala.
Dean needed him. They didn't anymore.
He pressed his hand over his face, holding the torrent in. He pressed his lips together, forcing his jaw to strengthen.
"He's awake," he ground out, "and breathing on his own. He's pretty out of it, though, can't do anything that the doctors tell him to do. So like Dean. But..." He pressed his lips tightly together and breathed. "He's awake." The dams broke. "I think he's going to be okay. It's going to take a while." He looked out into the distance, not really seeing the tree there, and gave a shaky laugh. "I don't even know why I'm telling you this." He focussed his attention on the words in front of him again: Mary Winchester. "I'm not going to let anything happen to him, Mary. I promise you that. I'll keep him safe."
"Dean's coming home tomorrow. I...I wanted you to know. He's doing really good; he's walking and his coordination is better. He's still getting headaches. The doctors say that he may have them for the rest of his life. He's not talking, though. They think it's because of the brain damage. But I know; he'll talk when he wants to. You can't force Dean to do anything that he doesn't want to do."
"Dean."
The voice was still far enough away. He put a hand on the smooth, cool stone and patted it. It was damp with the rain that had fallen earlier in the day. The stone felt just like he had done – cold, smooth and wet.
"Dean!"
Hands turned him around to face in the opposite direction and he struggled to turn back. "Dean, please." The hands on his shoulders tightened. "I can't lose you, too." He was pulled forward into a hard shoulder, flannel against his face, a hand on the back of his head. "Dean, please." The hands loosened and he stepped back. Fingers forced his chin up. "Dean, I need to hear you speak. I know you don't want to, but I need to hear you. Can you do that for me?"
There was a sigh, and one of the hands settled back on to his shoulder. "It's okay, dude; I understand. I miss them, too. But, you can't just run off like that. Something bad could happen to you."
He twisted around to face the stone again, his back against the legs behind him.
"Just let me know when you want to come here, and we'll come."
He reached out and ran a finger down the words. Still smooth, cool and damp - like Sammy. "Is Sammy go...going to pull k-kids under water now?" He almost surprises himself when the slightly slurred words come out.
His dad stepped in front of him and knelt down. "What? Dean, what do you mean?"
Dean stared at his dad. "There was a bo-boy pulling Sammy under water. I tried to get him to let go, but he woul-wouldn't, and Sammy...wasn't moving. Then the boy was pulling me down and I don't remember..."
A tear snuck down his father's cheek. "Oh, Dean."
"I wan-want Sammy back." Dean flung himself at his dad, silently shaking. He was lifted up and he pressed his face into his dad's shoulder.
"I do, too, kiddo. I do, too."
"God, Dad's being such a pain in the ass. 'Do your homework, Dean; you're not doing as well as you could be in school, Dean; clean up your room, Dean.' School is boring. He's talking about sending me to see a therapist to improve my concentration. Because we can blame everything on the fact that I nearly drowned. It's such a load of bull. I just don't like school. Why can't he get that?"
Dean studied the last piece of grass that he'd picked.
"Bet you would have been the perfect son he wanted."
"I don't know what I'm going to do with him, Mary." John rubbed a hand over his face, weary to the bone. "He got suspended, again. Nearly broke another kid's nose and it took three teachers to restrain him. His mood swings so fast sometimes; you'll be joking with him one second and the next he'll be screaming at you."
He stopped and studied his feet. "I don't know whether I can do this anymore. I'm not helping him. They keep on telling me it should get better as he gets older, but I just don't see it. Mary, I don't know what to do."
"I hate him! I hate him. How could he? He keeps on saying that nobody will ever replace her, and, and then what does he do?"
Dean stopped his pacing to kick at a nearby head stone.
"Her name's Amanda. He says that if I get to know her I'll like her, but," he kicked again, "I don't want to get to know her! It's not like she's going to last anyway. I know he's had other 'girlfriends'." Dean filled the word with contempt. "They never last."
John stood with his hands in his pockets. "Thing's are going good. Dean's finally settling down a bit. Don't get me wrong, he's still a first class pain in the ass at times, and moody, and he's discovered girls, but he's not getting into as many fights as he was."
"I think." John breathed out slowly through his nose. "I think that Amanda has helped. I... I never expected to find her, Mary. Sometimes I feel so guilty... but she makes Dean happy, and she can be there when I have to work."
He studied his feet, reluctant to say the words. "I think I'm in love with her." He looked up and away, smiling slightly. "And it seems stupid, asking permission from my dead wife, but that's what I guess I'm doing. I don't think you'd hate me for this, but a part of me hates myself."
"It feels like it's been forever since I've been here. But, I guess I have an excuse – I've been away at college. I'm now a full-fledged high school science teacher."
Dean grinned. "Yeah, I know, hard to believe, huh? I've even got a job, at my old high school. The look on Mr. Knowles face when he saw me..." He chuckled. "I think he expected me to end up in prison.
"I'm living with Dad and Amanda until I find my own place. Hopefully that won't take too long; Dad's already getting antsy with me being there. I think I'm cramping their style."
"You'd be so proud of your nephew. I'd left Marcus on his stomach on the floor for a few minutes, and when I got back, I found him swimming in his own vomit. Seriously, full breaststroke action, happily spreading it everywhere. Dad said he's his father's son; I don't think Gillian ever doubted that. I can't believe how big he's getting. He's almost six months, getting so heavy and active.
"School's going good. Haven't blown up anything lately, and my eyebrows have finally grown back.
"Dad's been irritable. I thought I was bad, but he's been worse. Probably just the weather, he always gets this way when there are storms. Anyway, I better head home, looks like there's another one coming in."