'Cliffhanger'

Chapter 9

Notes: Hi guys, please, please forgive me again for the horrendous delay *hides head in shame* I promise I have legit excuses, but I won't bore you with them all LOL ;) – Thanks to everyone for the awesome reviews, PM's, comments, fav's, alerts and constructive crits. I hope that these final chapters will live up to your expectations. This story is as much for you, as it is for me after all, it's just a bonus that I have fun writing it LOL :)

Also, always thanks to my amazing, patient, cheerleading beta's PADavis, Amarintha and Kelly. And to Wendy for giving me that 'threatening' push that I seriously needed … need to keep my feathers LOL :)

Warning: Language

John's POV

"Dean?"

Oh god, I'm next to him in an instant, reaching out, trying to break his fall as he crumples to the floor, a dead weight. My knees hit the cold surface, and I cringe, only managing to half catch him. Thank god he's landed mostly on his right, uninjured side. I carefully lift him up into my arms, the heat of his skin seeping through his gown. Shit, kiddo, what were you thinking? I lightly brush my fingers through his wet hair, my heart thrumming in panic, he's burning up.

"DEAN! … unnn … Dad? Is he okay, what's wrong … Dad?"

Sammy's petrified voice makes me glance up at him. He's trying to lever himself up.

"Sammy, just try to stay calm son, stay still, I've got him."

He still reaches for the call button next to his bed, face scrunching in pain at the effort, while I yell for assistance.

"HELP … I NEED HELP IN HERE!"

"Dean?"

I check to see if he's breathing before tapping his face lightly, his head cradled on my forearm. He doesn't respond. Shit, he looks terrible. I feel my chest tightening with dread as I notice the dark smudges framing his closed eyes. I press my hand over the blood stain spreading on his gown, trying to stop the flow.

"Dad, please … how is he?"

I look up helplessly at Sam, our eyes meeting again, our stupid argument already forgotten.

"I don't know, son …"

Sam's face pales, he's still trying to keep himself up on shaky arms, trying to see Dean with his own eyes. God, I was definitely blessed with two of the world's most stubborn damn kids. And right now I feel like shaking Dean, out of fear and frustration. What kinda stupid ass stunt was this? I'm already making a mental note to kick his ass when he regains consciousness.

I'm mad as hell at him, but right now worry is also starting to settle in my gut. He still hasn't moved. The blood has drained from his face, his freckles more evident, lips slightly parted, breaths rapid and shallow. The sweat glistens on his skin as his body shudders, just before he starts making choking sounds. I quickly turn him, knowing he is going to throw up. I sigh with relief when I notice that there's no blood in the fluids he expels. Thank god for small mercies. I wait apprehensively for his erratic breaths to even out as I gently tap him on the back, his suffering becoming my own.

I look up at Sam again, our eyes filled with the same fears, just as the medical staff rush in.

A nurse kneels down next to us, her fingers going straight to Dean's neck to check his pulse.

"What happened?"

Her question makes me suddenly furious.

"Maybe you should tell me. How is it that my barely recovered son managed to walk all the way to his brother's room, bleeding, without anyone seeing him?"

I know I'm transferring the blame, 'cause I have no doubt that Dean would have snuck past them no matter what. I've trained him, I know how good he is. But my need to vent has me taking out my frustrations on somebody, anybody.

"Um, I … we, it's … well, we just didn't …"

She's stammering and I realize that I'm glaring. I try to soften that look, knowing that it can scare the shit out of marines. The nurse doesn't stand a chance. I don't want her to lose focus. I need to take control of the situation.

"Listen, it doesn't really matter how he got here, we just need to get him back to his room, and see how badly he's injured. Where's Doctor Webber?"

She looks at me in slight panic, the orderlies moving around to help lift Dean out of my arms.

"He's in surgery, Mr. Davis, he'll come through as soon as he can."

I move over to Sammy's side as they settle Dean onto the gurney. The boy's breathing is harsh and fast, he's panicking, still trying to catch a glimpse of his brother.

"Sam, I need you to calm down, son … you need to take slow, even breaths."

He looks at me, nodding his head as he battles to follow my instructions. I adjust the bed slightly to offer him some support, both of us still keeping watch on the activity around Dean, until they wheel him out of the room.

My focus returns to Sam. A nurse has moved over to check on him, noting his elevated heart rate and his trouble breathing. She injects something, I assume a sedative, into his IV. A few minutes later he starts relaxing visibly and I put my hand on his shoulder, gently squeezing, trying to relieve his fears.

"Sam, I know you're scared, but I'll take care of this, I promise you. You need to calm down and try to relax, I'm going across to your brother's room to check on him, okay? I promise I'll come back with news as soon as I know more."

He's taking in small, gulping breaths of oxygen through his mask, his eyes battling to stay open, so he just nods again.

"It will be okay, son, I'm sure he's fine, he just shouldn't have been out of bed yet."

"Need … to be … with him."

"I know … I know."

I can see his energy waning as he tries to speak.

"You think … he heard us arguing, Dad?"

His voice is soft and slurred and I can't help but smile down at my worried son. It amazes me how similar both my boys are, and yet how totally different they can be from each other sometimes. I lightly brush his bangs out of his face. Kid needs a haircut.

"Maybe, I guess … Sam … I'm not sure …"

I fight down my warring emotions. I'm angry and worried … angry at getting into a fight with my youngest son, and worried at how our fight has affected Dean's wellbeing. Sam and I tend to fight a lot lately, more than usual … probably our similar personalities clashing … we are both such headstrong SOB's.

"I'm sorry too … Dad."

He has this scary ability to read my mind sometimes. I try to clear my uncomfortably tight throat. We don't need to say more, none of us are good at 'tender' moments. With another promise of returning soon with news of Dean, I leave Sam, knowing the medication will help him relax, possibly help him get some much needed sleep.

I walk into Dean's room just as the nurse takes out an ampoule, breaking it between her fingers, and placing it under Dean's nose. I catch a slight whiff of the strong fruity smelling substance, watching Dean's face, but he doesn't react, features still slack.

She frowns, discarding the first ampoule, checking his breathing, then breaking another ampoule, again placing it under Dean's nose. This time his breath hitches slightly, his eyes rolling back showing the whites, but he still doesn't regain consciousness. I walk further into the room, concerned at his reaction.

"What is that?"

She doesn't look at me as she checks his stats.

"It's something that's supposed to help him regain consciousness. We use it when patients pass out. After inhaling an ampoule or two, they usually wake up."

I look at her stupidly.

"So why hasn't he woken up yet?"

She turns to look at me then, the worry in her eyes making me extremely nervous.

"I don't know."

A few minutes later Doctor Webber comes rushing in.

"Just came out of surgery, got the message, what happened?"

The nurse gives him all the details while he starts checking on Dean. They've already removed his gown, covered him with a blanket, and the doc starts by carefully removing the blood stained gauze. The blood seems to be seeping from the surgical wound. From here it looks like he's torn the stitches. Shit, son, that's gotta hurt. I shake my head at his stubbornness. I don't know where he gets that from, probably Mary's side of the family.

The doctor's assessment seems to be the same as mine, because he asks one of the nurses for a suture kit. I listen to him rattling off orders and asking urgent questions, while he cleans the wound, probing and prodding, before neatly and efficiently re-stitching it.

"The patient lost consciousness next door, I gave him two ampoules of Amyl Nitrite to revive him. He hasn't shown any signs of responding."

Doctor Webber's eyes widen and he immediately leans over Dean, checking his pupils and listening to his heart and lungs. I keep my focus on my sons still, sweat glistened face.

"Damnit, if you couldn't get hold of me, you should have called Doctor DeMarco. Giving him Amyl Nitrite was a mistake."

The nurse pales visibly and I can feel the color leave my own face, as I come to stand next to Dean, looking at the doc apprehensively. But he ignores me for the moment, his full attention on his patient. I watch him, anger building in my chest at the nurse standing beside me, but also not wanting to interrupt the doctor as he works. I bite my tongue, knowing I can trust this man. He knows what he's doing, and he'll make sure Dean is alright, no matter what, I have no doubt of that.

"BP's 90 over 60. We have decreased breath sounds so let's get him back on a hundred percent oxygen. His heartbeat is slightly irregular and we have some discoloration of his lips and fingernails. I want him on a 24 hour watch, and monitor him for infection. We may need to take him back to ICU if he starts getting worse."

I settle next to Dean, watching as one of the nurses runs a cool cloth over his heated skin. Everyone works around us as I take his warm, slack hand into my own.

"…check for blood clots …"

I lift his hand to my lips briefly, then rest my forehead against it, watching his closed eyes, still hoping they will open any second.

"… need to get this fever down as soon as possible ..."

The buzz of activity eventually slows down, and I look up at the doctor again, making notes on Dean's chart, frowning.

"Is he going to be alright?"

"Yeah."

He looks at me then, and tries to give me a reassuring smile.

"I'm sorry John, I didn't mean to scare you. He's seems okay for now, stable. We're going to take him through for an x-ray again, just to make sure he hasn't damaged anything with the fall."

They've hooked Dean up to all the equipment again, and I feel slightly comforted by the soft sound of his heartbeat from the monitors.

"What was that stuff the nurse gave him?"

"Amyl nitrite … it's a type of vasodilator. It relaxes the blood vessels, increasing the blood and oxygen supply to the heart. But if you have low blood pressure, like Dean has at the moment … it's not something I would recommend."

I nod, watching each precious and shallow breath my son pulls into his lungs.

"I need to tell you that Dean's reaction to the Amyl Nitrite has me a bit worried. It's been used in cases like this before, but from the tests I've run, Dean seems to be very susceptible to allergic reactions. It will be good for you to know this information in future, and we can put it on his medical record. We'll do more extensive and conclusive tests when he's completely healed. But the effects of the drug should wear off shortly, and shouldn't be life threatening."

I find myself sighing, smiling wanly at Webber. The problem is that both my boys never have any real medical records, not that we can keep track of. Not without raising suspicions. I make a mental note to try and get my hands on that list before we leave. I suddenly feel exhausted, my usually dormant emotions have been pushed to their limits.

He leaves us then, promising to check back with us shortly, while I continue to just sit quietly with Dean, counting the minutes.

When a nurse comes in again, she confirms that Sam is finally sleeping, and she promises to call me when he wakes up. I find myself continuously torn between sitting with Sam or Dean, both of them needing me right now, and that's unfamiliar territory. Dean usually takes care of everyone, everything … he takes care of me, of Sammy. I gently massage the inside pad of his thumb.

My strong boy is suddenly so weak, and I know now, more than ever, that I can't let something like this ever happen again. Maybe if I had prepared them better, trained them harder, we wouldn't be in this situation now. I'll have to rectify that when they're both well. They need to be stronger, they need to be the best hunters out there … I can't and won't risk losing them … and training them is the only way I can protect them.

I swallow the lump in my throat. God, this has to have been the longest week of my life. I nearly lost my boys, and that's just unacceptable. The thought still leaves me feeling sick. To make matters worse, Sam has started questioning the way I've been treating Dean, questioning my methods, my authority. I've been trying to encourage both of them to recover quicker, and apparently that isn't sitting well with Sam. His questions and doubts are what started the argument, and I should have been wise enough to just let go. I shake my head slowly at the memory. I wonder at myself sometimes. When did I become such a hard son of a bitch?

I brush my hand gently up and down Dean's arm. Goddamnit, he nearly died on that mountain, in that helicopter, and again in the ER. Sammy … Sammy nearly died a few days later, when his heart stopped … he was still in a coma. I didn't tell Dean. Didn't want him stressing himself sick, which he would have done if he had known what Sammy's condition truly was.

I remember waking up to the sounds of alarms, before being pushed out of the way, alone in the corner of the room as they worked frantically over my Sam, the feeling of déjà vu … made the whole experience feel unreal. The four minutes of chest compressions before he started to respond might as well have been forty years. The noises, the sounds … those memories, they never leave me, probably never will, and they haunt my dreams when I do manage to sleep. It was one of the reasons I didn't want him to go see his brother, not yet. They're both still too weak, too vulnerable for a relapse.

I snort at the realization that keeping them apart was apparently not such a great idea either, because they've both taken a step back in their recovery because of the separation. They are so close, working, training, hunting as a team, day in and day out, they need to be together. Their close bond is what makes them that much stronger. I'll speak to Doctor Webber, see if I can get them into the same room.

An hour later I'm standing outside, chatting to a worried Bobby on my cell. I give him a rundown on the boy's conditions, and he insists that when they are ready to leave, that we come and stay with him, so the kids can continue their recovery at his place. I find I'm grateful for his offer. We've never really had a place to call home, not since Lawrence, and Bobby's pad is the closest thing we've got.

I tell him that the doctor said that both boys will probably be out be out of commission for at least twelve weeks. That thought worries me a bit, knowing I'll have to leave them behind again, hunt on my own.

"It's a miracle that either of those kids are even alive, ya realize?"

His words hit me hard.

"I know, Bobby … and I'm grateful … you'll never know how much."

There's a short silence, before his gruff voice answers.

"I do know, John, and I know you love ya boys in your own stubborn way … but you need to have patience with them, if you even remember how."

His words are harsh, but I know that he means well, even if my face is flaring red in agitation. I'll need his help … so I won't start a fight.

"I'll have everything ready when ya get here … just don't rush them."

I snort. The bastard knows me well, even if I don't say anything, he's still able to read me like a book. It's the cause of the numerous fights we have with each other. He knows me too damn well.

I finish the call, deciding to try and find Doctor Webber again and make some changes to the separate rooms arrangement. I find him next to the coffee machine. He pours me a cup as well as we move over to the doctor's lounge, sneaking me in as we sit down on the nearest sofa.

"You still look like shit, John. You been getting any rest?"

"Yeah, a few hours here and there … it's kinda hard to rest right now."

He chuckles, nodding his head in understanding, before taking a sip of his own coffee. He looks at me, just as I'm about to open my mouth, holding up his hand as he swallows.

"Before you ask, there's no change, the x-rays came back fine, but Dean is still non-responsive. It has us a bit concerned that he hasn't woken up yet, but I'm sure he just needs the rest. We don't see any medical reason why he shouldn't wake up soon."

I put my cup down on the table, rubbing my hands over my face tiredly as I sigh. God, when will this fucking nightmare end?

"Just have faith, John."

I want to laugh at him then. Faith? I'm so sick of hearing that word.

I reach for my own coffee once more, letting the heat of it warm my cold hands as Doctor Webber continues.

"You also need to remember that it's going to take time, a lot of it, and they both need to recuperate at their own pace. You can't push them on this, it will only hamper their recoveries if you try."

Guilt gnaws at my gut. I admit that my own worries and fears probably made me push too hard, but I'm so used to my kids following my orders, without question, that sometimes I forget that they are just kids, not soldiers ... not yet.

I remember to ask Webber about moving the boys, and he tells me that he doesn't foresee any problems having Sam transferred into Dean's room. He says he will make the necessary arrangements once Sam is awake. We finish off our coffee before the doc goes to do his rounds. I make my way back to Sammy's room. He's still asleep as I pull up a chair to sit next to him. Watching him rest, watching him heal … it's kinda therapeutic.

"Hey, old man."

I look up at Jim's ugly mug. He has some nerve calling me old. I smile tiredly as he enters the room, watching him draw up a chair to sit next to me. He's one of my oldest and closest friends, one of the very few people I trust with my life, with my boys' lives.

"How you holding up?"

I lean forward, my elbows resting on my knees.

"Okay, I guess."

He sits back, arms folded, enjoying the moment of silent companionship. He has a calmness that surrounds him, and I feel myself relaxing slightly. My hand is resting on Sammy's arm, my thumb tracing a thin scar, one of many, along the inside of his arm, traveling up to his elbow. I remember stitching that wound.

"A wise man once said 'God will not look you over for medals, degrees or diplomas, but for scars'."

I snort slightly at his comment. He always manages to dish out some sort of 'words of wisdom' crap at the slightest opportunity. I look at him over my shoulder, a small smile tugging at his lips. He knows how much his 'fortune cookie' philosophy irritates me. He does it on purpose, the self-righteous bastard.

Jim and I have a no nonsense kind of friendship, he always tells me the truth, no matter what, and I return the favor. His next words are soft, laced with a truth that I cannot and never will accept.

"This life … it's not cut out for everybody, John. Dean, he relishes the adventure, the danger … but it won't last forever …"

I frown at him but he's not put off by my look.

"… and Sam, he'll eventually leave … and you'll have to let him go."

It sounds like he's stating a fact, and suddenly I'm pissed off, my voice strains as I try to maintain my calm.

"What the hell are you going on about, Jim? That will never happen, you know it as well as I do. The one thing I do have faith in, my friend … the one thing I know with a hundred percent certainty, is that even if Sam gives up on me, he will never leave Dean. Ever."

Jim doesn't respond. Just sits there, all calm, while my stomach knots. I shake my head again before rubbing my hands over my tired eyes. He's mistaken. He has to be.

I lean back, imitating his posture, letting my head fall back, my neck popping, closing my eyes briefly and sighing, before rolling my head sideways to look at Jim's stoic profile. I'm pissed, and he knows it.

He's a pastor and damn fine hunter, working from his church in Blue Earth, Minnesota. He's had a rough time of it, worse than most of us. When he was just nine years old, his mother tried to drown him and his brother. His brother and mother died in the incident, but he survived, 'miraculously' as he calls it. He gained the unenviable ability to make the dead come to him. He's done it before, done it for me before, when I needed to see Mary after she died. It's not a pleasant memory, one I've tried to forget … but it's this knowledge of him that makes his next words devastating to hear.

"John …"

He's still calm, eyes focusing on the opposite wall of the room. I grunt in response.

"… I need to tell you something, and what I'm about to say, it's probably gonna freak you out, more than you already are. So I need you to promise to keep it together, for Sam's sake."

God, I hate it when he starts a conversation like this.

"For …," I almost say Christ, but he gives me a knowing look, "… heavens sake Jim, just spit it out already."

He looks at me then, the sincerity in his eyes only lending credence to his words.

"When I left Dean's room … I could feel a presence …"

My heart immediately starts hammering in my chest.

"… I could feel … death …"

As his words and their meaning sink in, I start shaking my head in denial. My voice becomes a frantic whisper as Sam starts stirring restlessly in his sleep.

"No … no Jim … not a fucking Reaper? Goddamnit, don't say that, please, please, don't say it!"

The look on his face confirms my fears. I know he wouldn't tell me something like this, unless he was a hundred percent certain.

"Oh god … oh god …"

"John, listen to me …"

His steady hand reaches out to rest on my shoulder.

"We at least know it's there … I've already blessed the room, and prayed with Dean … we can add some protection spells and sigils if you think it will help, but you have to have faith … this is something Dean's going to have to fight … alone."

Shit, there's that damn word again … faith … I only have faith in what I know. Knowledge, everything I've learnt over all these years as a hunter, it's in my journal. Hard facts. That's where my faith lies.

I push myself up then, glancing quickly at my restless son, my mind instantly made up. I'm not going to let Dean die, and I sure as shit won't let some reaper take him away from me. I march out of the room, vaguely noticing Jim rushing after me, trying to keep up.

"John … shit … wait-up."

My mind is already working overtime.

"Jim, I need you to do something for me …"

I'm walking ahead, I don't look back.

"John? Wait!"

"I'm going to the Impala, should have the things I need there … "

He grabs my arm, spinning me around as we stop, his eyes boring into mine.

"Damnit, wait! What are you doing? What do you want to do?"

I look at him confused. Isn't it obvious?

"I want you to bind Dean's soul to his body."

His face pales slightly in shock at my statement.

"John … shit … you don't know what you're asking."

"Yes I do. I want you to bind Dean's soul to his body. I have the binding ritual in my journal. It will give him a fighting chance, no opportunity for that reaper to take him away. He can rest, let his body heal …"

Jim is shaking his head, incredulous.

"John … you know what will happen … if …"

Fury burns in me again … damnit, I'm in charge … Dean is my son, I'll do what's best for him.

"Nothing's going to happen, just do as I tell you."

"No John, I won't … you hear me? Listen, if you bind Dean's soul to his body and he dies …"

I push Jim with such force then, up against the wall, my arm pressed against his throat, muscles straining as I try to control my anger. He coughs, face going a bit red, but he doesn't fight back. I spit the words out, my face inches from his.

"He's not going to die, you hear me … he's not going to die! Not if I have anything to say about it!"

He pushes at my arm, and I release him. He looks at me through hooded eyes, rubbing at his throat.

"… you can get as mad at me as you want, but it won't change a thing. A binding ritual will trap Dean's soul in his body, with no means of escape if he dies … if he dies … you know it, John, you know his soul won't find peace … you'll have to salt and burn him like those spirits you hunt … can you do that, can you do that to your own son?"

My legs refuse to hold me up any longer, and I fall to my knees, Jim quickly kneeling in front of me. My voice breaking.

"Jim … please … I don't know how else to help him … you do this for me … you do this …"

I sob then, uncontrollably, feeling his comforting hand on my back.

"… please."

"I can't. I won't. I love those boys as much as you do, and doing this, choosing this road, it's the worst punishment you could wish on anyone, let alone your own son. If, God forbid, something does happen, then eventually, doing this, it will turn him … change him into one of the things that you hunt."

Deep down I know he's right, and that only makes me feel worse, but I nod slowly. He carefully helps me to my feet, maneuvering us over, sitting us down on the nearest chairs. He clamps his hand firmly behind my neck, forcing me to look into his eyes.

"We've been friends for many years, John, you know I have your best interests at heart, right?"

"Yeah … I do … but I'm losing him, Jim … god, I just got him back, I can't … I just can't …."

"I know. But you have to leave his recovery in the hands of God now."

I look at him, my eyes brimming with unshed tears.

"I don't know if I have the strength to do that."

I rub at my eyes, sniffing loudly, as I finally push myself up. Damnit, I need to pull it together. I pinch the bridge of my nose as I try to get my thoughts in order, okay, we'll try it Jim's way. I'll leave it in God's hands for now, I'll trust in Dean's fighting spirit … but if anything happens to my boy … anything … I'll break down the gates of heaven and hell to save him. And nobody will stop me.

We walk back to Sam's room, an uncomfortable silence between us. I find Doctor Webber waiting for us in Sam's room. Sam's awake, the panic evident on his face.

"John, please, you need to follow me … Dean's condition is deteriorating."

I lose my voice, looking from Sam to the doc in disbelief.

"Dad, please … you need to take me to Dean now!"

Webber nods his head in agreement, which scares me. Is it his way of saying that Sam needs to say goodbye? I'm still staring blankly at him, listening to him organizing for Sam to be transferred to his brother's room as quickly as possible. Jim thankfully stays with Sam, while I immediately follow the doc.

The sight that greats us makes my heart sink. They're trying to hold Dean down as he convulses violently on the bed. The monitors and equipment add to the frantic noises as they try to stabilize him. His fevered body fights against the people trying to save him, each breath a battle, sweat pouring from his body. I move further into the room, watching and waiting nervously, until finally his body starts succumbing to the endless rounds of medication they are pumping into his system. The convulsions thankfully stop, only slight trembling of his limbs remaining, his eyes moving restlessly behind closed lids. His chest is still heaving as I move over next to him, lifting his clammy hand into my own. I lean forward to whisper into his ear, not knowing if he can hear me, let alone understand what I'm saying.

"Please, Dean … be strong, son … fight damnit. Sammy's on his way, he'll be here with you any minute … you need to hold on kiddo. Please, just hold on."

TBC – final chapter Sammy's POV