Author's Notes: Squee! For what it's worth, I've been trying to get this to you guys for the past 24 hours. I apologize to everyone I've not responded to. Please know that I treasure every word of your reviews. And now, before the site has any more problems, I'd like to present the end of this story. As you reach for the tissues, please know that I've got the next story completed and one more on the drawing board.
Again, thanks to Amy and Caroline for betaing, and thanks to everyone who had the courage to read this sad tale.
Emily
"Sit down, boys."
The knot in Dean's gut tightened. "I'd rather stand, actually."
Dr. Stevens looked at him sympathetically, then shrugged as he sank into his large leather office chair. "Do either of you need anything before we get started? Water?"
"No," Sam said softly, firmly. Dean's anxiety was increasing his own. "Please, just… can you tell us what's going on with our dad?"
Dr. Stevens leaned back and steepled his hands. "What's going on, Sam, is that your father has entered the sixth stage of Alzheimer's disease."
"How many-"
"Seven. This is the start of the end stage."
The words hit like a fist and Sam's gut clenched. It was no surprise- after all, he had done his research- but it hurt hearing the words out loud. Made them real. Behind him, Dean fell back against the window.
The doctor looked solemnly at Sam then Dean. "Boys, there's no easy way to tell you this. Based on the symptoms you've described; the loss of awareness, his needing assistance using the restroom and getting dressed, the disruption of the sleep cycle, and his compulsive behaviors…" he paused. "Your father would be better off in a full-time nursing facility."
Dean pushed away from the window and started for the door. "Come on, Sam. We're leaving."
Sam watched him, making no move to follow.
"I do not make recommendations such as this very lightly," Dr. Stevens said. "I would not bring this up if I did not think it was what is best for your father."
"You can take your recommendation and shove it," Dean snapped, hovering in the doorway. "We can take care of him just fine."
Sam shifted uncomfortably, and it had nothing to do with the stiff leather chair. "Dean, I think we should-"
"Shut up," Dean snapped, and Sam found himself on the business end of Dean's index finger. "I'm not sticking Dad in a fucking nursing home for the rest of his life. I don't want him being taken care of by strangers. That's what we're for. We're his sons, we can take care of him."
Sam glanced at the doctor. "But we can't take care of him," he argued. "Look at what happened yesterday. He could-"
"What happened yesterday?" Dr. Steven cut in.
"Nothing," Dean said. "He got a little lost and we found him, that's all."
"Got a little lost? He was trying to buy a bus ticket to Kansas!"
"But we found him."
"Because the security guard has a soft spot for confused old men."
Dr. Stevens coughed. "Let's focus here, please," he started, flatly, "You two need to put aside your differences and think about what truly is best for your father. Are you prepared to be his full-time caregiver?"
Sam shut his mouth; Dean sat down heavily in the opposite chair. "I know what's best-"
"Let me speak," the doctor said, holding up a hand. "This is a very emotional decision and I understand what you two are going through, I really do. But let me ask you this: are you prepared be your father's nursemaid 24 hours a day? Can the two of you handle feeding him, clothing him, bathing him, helping him walk and eventually move at all? Not to mention all the mood swings brought on by confusion and frustration and fear. His language will deteriorate, he'll be more susceptible to other diseases."
Dr. Stevens slid a thin pamphlet across the desk towards Sam. "This is a wonderful hospice nursing home located just down the street. I'm their on-call physician and I make rounds there every morning. The staff is wonderful and well-educated. I encourage you to go there and take a look around." He looked pointedly at Dean. "Your father will not be stuck in a room and forgotten, I promise you. They have very active programs designed to slow the Alzheimer's progression." He smiled at them. "Placing your father in a nursing home is not admitting defeat, gentlemen. You have done a wonderful job so far. But perhaps now it is time to pass the torch along?"
Dean snorted softly, dropping his right ankle onto the opposite knee. "Before it burns out, you mean?"
Sam winced.
Dr. Stevens bowed his head in acknowledgement. "We all die, Dean. But by placing your father in a nursing home, you can be sure he will be well-cared for until the end."
Dean looked out the window, his jaw clenched.
"And anyway," Dr. Stevens continued, leaning back. "You're young. I'm sure you boys would like to get back to your normal lives. You know, school, girls…"
This time, Sam looked out the window.
"Our dad is not a burden," Dean argued.
"He's not?"
"No." The answer was fast, seemingly without thought.
There was a pause, then, "Sam? You're being awful quiet. Do you have any questions?"
The doctor and Dean were both staring at him. Sam cleared his throat. "Do we have to decide right now? Can we talk about it? How long do we, uh… have? You know, until…"
"Most patients live for another year or two after entering the end stage," Dr. Stevens replied. "Go home, do some research, talk to people. Talk to each other. Put aside your emotions. I think you'll make the right choice."
Sam nodded. He already knew the right choice. But convincing Dean… that was one mountain Sam wasn't sure he could move.
"I want to see him now," Dean said. "He's been here long enough."
"Of course." Dr. Stevens rolled back from his desk and stood up, watching as Sam folded the hospice brochure and stuck it in his jacket pocket. "Follow me."
o0O0o
OCTOBER
In a small diner on the edge of Satsuma, they realized he was incontinent.
The mashed potatoes were creamy and salty, the meat cooked just right and seasoned the whole way through. The water was clean and the waitress was friendly, and they were enjoying themselves for once. Later, Sam would blame himself for not paying attention, not asking if his father needed to relieve himself. He should have known better.
Two bites into his pecan pie, John dropped his fork and looked down at his lap.
"What's wrong?" Dean asked, both brothers immediately on guard, straining to see.
Bloodshot eyes lifted to meet them. "I…" John started, his eyes wide and haunted.
"Dad?" Sam prompted, sliding out of the booth and circling the table.
He looked down, saw the large wet splotch on the crotch of John's jeans, and swallowed.
"I didn't mean to," John said. "I-"
"It's okay," Sam murmured, reaching out.
Dean looked between the two of them. "What? Is he okay?"
"Yeah," Sam replied quietly, pulling John to his feet. "We need to go now. You got the bill?"
Dean's eyes locked onto the dark stain. "Uh, yeah. Sure."
"We'll be in the car," Sam said, navigating John between the empty tables.
o0O0o
NOVEMBER
After filling the tank and loading up on junk food at a Devol gas station, he lost the ability to walk on his own.
Sam pushed open the glass door and juggled the drinks and candy in his hands as John stepped over the threshold and onto the sidewalk. Dean was at the far pump, his back to them, leaning against the trunk of the Impala as he watched the numbers on the pump rise. Sam let the door shut and followed his father.
John stepped off the curb and his ankle gave out, sending him crashing to the oil-slicked blacktop.
"Dad!" Sam yelped, dropping their lunch and falling to the ground next to his father. "Dean!"
John groaned, a long-suffering sound of embarrassment and frustration. "Damnit," he cursed, pushing himself upright. "I'm fine. Get off me."
Dean was beside him then, and they each had a hand on John's shoulder. "Are you sure?" Sam asked, helping John to his feet. "Does your ankle hurt?"
John glared at the Impala, not meeting either brother's concerned gaze. "I said I'm fine," he growled, hobbling from foot to foot. "Just help me to the damn car."
Sam lifted his father's arm, settled it around his own shoulders, and never removed it.
o0O0o
DECEMBER
As they watched a snowy rerun of 'A Christmas Story' on the small hotel TV, they learned the full implications of their choice.
The cell phone rang while Dean was helping John brush his teeth. Sam stared at the illuminated display, not recognizing the incoming phone number, not liking the way his stomach twisted in knots.
"Sam, can you get that?" Dean yelled.
Sam leaned over, grabbed the phone and flipped it open. "Hello?"
"Is this Dean Winchester?" The voice was panicked, breathless.
"This is Sam, his brother."
"Oh, Sam. Okay. I got your number from my sister's best friend. She said you guys deal with… you know… ghosts?"
"Uh, yeah. Sort of. I mean… What's your name?"
"I'm Nicole. I think my house it haunted. Can you guys come get rid of it?"
Sam looked to the bathroom, watched the shadows move over the floor. "Where are you, Nicole?"
"Washington."
Sam's stomach tightened. Washington was at least a two-day drive, if they only stopped to care for their father. They had fallen into a routine, traveling short distances at a time, mostly in an effort to keep their father occupied. Running long and hard at the drop of a hat wasn't feasible anymore- not if they were to continue caring for John. Plus, it was December. The weather had to be taken into consideration. "Look, Nicole… I'm going to give you the number of someone else, okay? He's a friend, he'll be able to help you."
"Oh," she replied, surprise evident in her voice. "Sure, okay. I guess."
As Sam relayed Caleb's contact information, a coldness crept over him, chilling his spine. This was the first time he'd ever backed down from a hunt. Despite his longing for a normal life, being a hunter defined Sam as a person. He'd grown up with it, been submersed in the nomadic, courageous lifestyle for as long as he could remember. A Winchester never backed down from a hunt. It was unheard of.
He'd turned away Nicole and her simple haunting- but it signified so much more. For years, they had the demon by the proverbial tail, keeping a firm and tenacious grip as it writhed and bucked. And now Sam had just let it escape, dropped it to the ground and watched it scamper away into the night, dragging Jess and Mom behind it.
At that moment, he realized just how much was being sacrificed, and it stole the breath from his lungs.
Sam closed the phone in the palm of his hand just as Dean helped John out of the bathroom. "Who was that?" Dean asked.
"Nobody," Sam replied, staring blankly at the images on the TV screen. "Wrong number."
Dean settled John onto the bed and glanced at Sam. "You looked spooked."
Sam blinked, shaking himself from his stupor. "I'm fine," he replied, not even bothering with a fake smile. He set the phone back on the nightstand. "Fine."
o0O0o
JANUARY
"I am not making him wear that."
"Dean-"
Dean snatched the package of adult diapers and threw them against the wall. "No. No fucking way."
"What else are we supposed to do? Get kicked out of every single hotel in the country?"
"The bedpan is bad enough. You are not putting Dad in… those too."
"You can't make him sleep in his own urine every night. He'll get infections. We won't be able to afford food if we spend all the money at the laundry mat."
Dean crossed his arms.
"Dean."
Dean's lip twitched before he raised one hand, slowly scrubbing his face. When he met Sam's gaze, his pain was physical. "I hate this," he breathed, tears shimmering in his eyes. "This is such bullshit!"
Before Sam could move, Dean had spun and thrown his weight into a left hook against the wall.
"Dean!" Sam shouted, lunging forward and catching his brother's elbow as he drew back for another blow. "Dean, come on. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
He didn't know what he was apologizing for. It didn't matter. When Dean stood relatively still, tense and panting, Sam continued, "We don't have a choice. I don't want to see him wear those any more than you do. But what other option do we have? Setting the alarm to go off every two hours? We would never last."
Dean breathed in, his breath hitching quietly. "This sucks," he muttered, looking everywhere but at Sam. "There aren't even words to describe how much this sucks."
Sam offered a small, hopeful smile. "I'm sure you'll think of something."
o0O0o
FEBUARY
One week after Dean's birthday, John choked on his cheeseburger.
Dean leapt into action, pounding on his father's back as John bent forward over the table. The other patrons stared in awe and concern, the waitresses asked if they should call an ambulance. John coughed and gagged, the veins on his neck and temple standing out sharply as he struggled to draw breath.
"Dad, calm down," Dean ordered, pushing Sam out of the way. He moved behind his father, wrapped his arms around John's chest, and pulled sharply against the soft spot at the bottom of John's sternum. "Come on, cough it up," he growled, performing the Heimlich once more.
Sam stood to the side, watching with the same wide-eyed expression as everyone else.
On the third try, John coughed up a clump of slimy, half-chewed food. He drew in a deep, ragged breath before the rest of the diner erupted in applause. Ignoring the noise, Dean settled John onto the cushion and rested a hand on his shoulder.
"Take it easy. Just breathe. Come on, Dad. Calm down."
As John struggled for composure, Dean glanced at Sam.
"Is he okay?" Sam asked, looking for all the world like he was the sole survivor of a mass killing.
John reached for his glass of water with trembling hands and Dean intercepted, dropping a straw into the glass before holding it out. "Here. Drink slow. You okay now?"
John nodded, then put the straw between his lips and drank.
Their audience was beginning to dissipate and Sam returned to his own chair, leaning in close. "Dr. Stevens said to watch out for difficulty swallowing. He said that-"
"I know what he said, Sam," Dean snapped, still watching John. "I was there, remember? This isn't that. This was just a fluke. He's fine. Look at him… he's fine. Just forget it."
o0O0o
APRIL
By Easter morning, John could no longer get out of bed on his own.
o0O0o
MAY
Sam spent most of his birthday sitting alone in the grass at Lakeview City Park. They couldn't afford presents and there wasn't much to celebrate anyway. Their father no longer recognized them.
Today was just one day closer to the inevitable.
o0O0o
JUNE
They wanted to blame it on the heat. Because really- nobody liked to carry on long-winded conversations when it was 100 degrees. Sweat dripped down their backs quick as raindrops and the humidity threatened to drown them. They were reduced to lying in air conditioned hotel rooms, soaking up cool air and mindless television. It was miserable.
But the truth of the matter was much more unbearable.
John Winchester was reduced to one syllable words and hand gestures.
Their names were now 'Hey, you' and 'Kid'. 'Food' meant he was hungry, 'Go' meant he needed to relieve himself (that one wasn't used very much), and 'Sleep' meant he was tired. Moving him required both Sam and Dean. Everything he ate had to be smaller than their pinky or soft. During the day, John was taken to the restroom every two hours. At night, Sam dressed him in Depends. Every other night, they alternated giving him sponge baths. Their father had become bedridden, completely dependant on the sons he no longer knew.
Sam couldn't remember the last time one of them smiled.
o0O0o
JULY
Dean leaned against the rusty balcony railing, eyes glued to the bursts of neon colors in the sky. He imagined he could imitate the fireworks, just shoot up into the sky and explode into a thousand tiny fragments. Escape, go somewhere he wouldn't have to watch his father deteriorate before his eyes. This long, slow death was more painful than he ever imagined. It was not how a Winchester should die- not how their father should die. John was their rock, their compass, their leader. He was their father, and he deserved to go out in a blaze of glory.
Instead, his flame was slowly reaching the end of the wick, flickering slowly, helplessly, before it vanished all together.
Dean dropped his head, letting it hang between tense shoulders. Overhead, the Independence Day celebration continued on.
"Dean? Get in here!"
Dean drew in a breath, steeling himself, then pushed away from the railing. "What?"
He passed through the dirty sliding glass door. Inside, Sam was hovering over their father, who was asleep on his back. "He okay?" Dean asked, stopping across from Sam.
"Something's wrong. He's got a rash… or something."
Sam looked at him with large, scared eyes and Dean threw up his mask of indifference. "Okay, where? Let me see it."
Sam gave him a look, then, and Dean felt a wave of apprehension wash through him. Before he could question it, Sam pulled back the thin sheet, then pulled up the right leg of John's boxers. "Look," he said, pointing at their father's genitals, "See? I think he should see a doctor."
Morbid fascination gave Dean the courage to stare at his father's most private parts. He and Sam had been exposed before; modesty had abandoned them with the first sponge bath. But staring openly at the red, raw blisters festering in the folds of his father's skin threatened to drop him. Dean tore his gaze away, making sure John was still sleeping before looking at Sam.
"Okay, I see it. Cover him up."
"There's more," Sam said as he pulled the sheet up to John's chest. "In between his toes. And I think he has a bladder infection. He's practically urinating none-stop and it looks like it hurts him."
"How long?"
"I don't know. The blisters weren't there when I bathed him last."
Dean nodded once, solemnly, and moved to his duffle bag. "I'll call Dr. Stevens. He's out of the office now, but I'll leave a message. We'll leave early tomorrow."
"Okay."
As Dean listened to the prerecorded message, he glanced back at Sam. "Good job," he offered, not liking the slump in his little brother's shoulders.
Sam looked up, hollow eyes staring right through Dean, and flashed the fakest grin Dean had ever seen. "Thanks."
The machine beeped over the phone line and with a heavy heart, Dean turned away.
"Hi, this is Dean Winchester, calling to get my father an appointment with Dr. Stevens…"
o0O0o
AUGUST
The day they checked him into the nursing home, it was pouring down rain. It was a blessing, really, because their tears blended in with the raindrops.
Dean pulled up next to the curb, ignoring the stripe of yellow paint, and opened his door. Together, he and Sam slid/pushed John over to the passenger side. Dean rounded the car, the engine grumbling softly under the booms of thunder, and helped Sam bring John to his feet.
They moved as fast as they could, carrying their father between them as they ran for the protection of the dark green awning. Dean kicked open the door and maneuvered them inside, where someone finally presented a wheelchair. He helped Sam lower their father into it, then took a look around as he flexed the kink from his back.
The tile floors shone brightly under the multitude of fluorescent lights. Breathing skeletons sat unmoving in their wheelchairs, parked at odd angles against the cream-colored wall. Straight-faced nurses moved with determination, eyeing the brothers warily as they passed. At the end of the hall sat a large medicine cart, and a heavy-set nurse poured four different colored pills into a tiny paper cup then disappeared into a room.
"Can I help you?"
Dean turned in the direction of the voice, coming face to face with a stony-faced receptionist. "Uh, yeah. I'm Dean Winchester, this is Sam. We're here to check in my Dad." He swallowed a mouthful of hot bile.
"Follow me."
She brushed past them and Dean glanced at Sam.
"We have to do this," Sam said, but his wide, dark eyes betrayed his strong voice.
Dean took the handles of the wheelchair. "Yeah. Come on."
They followed the clip-clop of high heels on tile and found themselves next to a doorway labeled 'Admissions'.
"You can go on it. I paged Cindy, she'll be here in a moment to help you with the paperwork."
And then she turned and left, her heels echoing as she disappeared.
Dean took a deep breath and led them inside the office.
Once they were settled in the fat leather chairs, John placed in between them, Dean rubbed the drying raindrops into his skin. Sam leaned over, silently brushing the wet hair out of John's eyes. Dean crossed his legs. He must have stepped in a puddle; the bottom hem of his jeans was soaking wet and pulled on his leg hair. He sighed, Sam straightened and ran a hand through his own wet hair, and Dean realized it was longer than he'd ever seen it.
"Nice painting," Sam muttered, jutting his chin at the crappy painting of a sunny corn field.
Dean shifted his weight.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen," Cindy announced as she breezed into the small office. "Some weather we're having, huh? I hope you didn't get too wet on your way in."
A drop of rain trickled down the back of Dean's ear and he shivered.
"Well let's get started, shall we?" she continued, sitting behind the desk and opening a drawer. "I've prepared the paperwork and done all the prerequisite leg work." She dropped a two-inch stack of papers onto the desk. "I'll just need you to look over this and sign at the appropriate places. Let's get started, shall we?" She slid the stack over to them, smiling brightly.
Dean stared at it, trying to gather the energy.
An hour later, they were down to the last five pages.
"I'll need your initials next to this top line if your father is a DNR, or choose one of these options below if you want us to take life-preserving measures."
It took a moment for the words to sink in; after all, his brain was mostly numb by now. Dean stared at the page, pen resting lightly in his heavy fingers. "Wait- what?"
Cindy faltered, stumbling over her words as she repeated herself. "Oh- sorry. DNR means do not resuscitate. If your father were to… stop breathing, how hard would you want us to fight?" She looked at them, waiting.
"I know what it means," Dean replied. "We have to decide this right now?"
"You mean you haven't already?"
Dean looked at Sam. "I don't want Dad hooked up to a bunch of machines," he said. "I don't want to keep him alive just for the sake of it. I won't prolong his suffering. He wouldn't want that."
"Me neither," Sam replied.
And it was the first thing they agreed on in a month.
o0O0o
SEPTEMBER
September 24th, he stopped eating on his own.
He slipped from being non-verbal to non-responsive.
In essence, John Winchester was already dead.
Sam and Dean sat on opposite sides of the bed, taking turns holding his hand, offering ice chips, reading from whatever book or magazine was lying around. They played videos of sunshine and singing birds, trying to get him to focus on something positive, something soothing. Stimulate his senses, the nurses said. Remind him of happy things.
Problem was, Dean and Sam didn't know what happy was anymore.
o0O0o
OCTOBER
Halloween night, the nursing home opened its doors to a pet parade. Costumed dogs and their owners went from room to room, visiting each patient while carrying plastic buckets of candy. Sam had seen most of the animals before- they were registered therapy animals that usually came to the nursing home every Wednesday night. It was mildly entertaining to see the calm, gentle pets dressed up as pumpkins and skunks and bumble bees. He smiled as his favorite golden retriever entered the room, tail wagging, sporting an elaborate Frankenstein costume.
The dog sat at John's bedside, an orange plastic pumpkin bucket swinging softly under his chin.
Sam reached in the bucket and grabbed a packet of small candies, holding it up in John's line of sight. "Look what Ralph brought you, Dad. You want some candy?"
If John understood, he gave no reaction.
Sam met Dean's gaze and let his hand fall. "Maybe later, then."
The dog whistled quietly and Sam felt the silky smooth hair that lay over the dog's neck. "Thanks anyway," he said, glancing at the plump, quiet woman on the other end of the leash.
"We better get going, Ralph," she said quietly. Then she locked gazes with Sam. "You boys have a nice Halloween," she smiled. "And please, eat some candy. You two look like you haven't had a good meal in months."
As she and Ralph walked out, one of the night nurses, Megan, walked in.
"Good evening boys," she greeted, going straight for the medical chart at the foot of John's bed. "You're not in costume."
"Sure we are," Dean said flatly. "We're dressed as two guys whose father is dying. Pretty life-like, huh?"
Megan looked like a deer caught in the headlights.
"Dean," Sam reprimanded softly.
She blinked, then moved deftly about the room, as if walking on eggshells. "We have some cookies in the break room. I can bring you some."
"No thanks," Sam replied. "I'm good."
Megan looked at Dean, seemingly afraid to open her mouth.
"No," Dean grunted. "Thanks."
Megan turned her attention to John. She peeled back the blankets, exposing his skeletal, bruised body. Small bedsores were forming on the prominent points of his hip bones. She applied an opaque cream gently, then set the tube on the nightstand. "Help me turn him?" she asked.
Dean rose first, sliding his hands under John's shoulder blades. Megan handled his legs, and together, they turned John onto his side. Sam found himself staring into his father's empty eyes.
"Thanks," Megan said. She made a note in the chart, put it back in its holder, then moved to the doorway. "I'll be back in a couple of hours. You guys going home soon?"
Sam shrugged. They never really left. Part of him always stayed behind, suffering in the uncomfortable chair at John's bedside. "Yeah. Thanks."
She left, and the room became dark and cold once more.
o0O0o
NOVEMBER
The next day, Dean sat next to the window in John's room, his legs crossed and a hardcover book on his lap. Sam sat across from him, one hand absently rubbing circles on the back of his father's hand as he watched the nursing home staff take down all the Halloween decorations. His neck was stiff from the lumpy motel mattress and barely-there pillow. The shower water never got warm enough and Sam swore the place was infested with cockroaches. But the price was right and the manager didn't ask questions.
John was staring at the ceiling, his breathing raspy and shallow, in… out… in… out, the tandem slow and steady. Next to Sam, an IV dripped nutrients down a length of clear tubing. It was the only life-preserving measure they agreed to.
Dean was reading steadily, like he was actually following the plot. The book was about a clumsy magician who got into extreme situations with Luggage, a trunk with a hundred feet. The book took place on a flat, disc-like world that was balanced on the backs of four elephants that stood on a giant turtle as it hurtled through space.
Sam rolled his eyes. It was exactly the type of novel his brother would enjoy.
He watched Dean read, his bloodshot eyes moving quickly over the words, his foot bouncing gently as if on its own accord. His voice was smooth and continuous, barely pausing as he turned the page. His hair had gotten longer, his face paler and thinner, and his leather jacket seemed one size too big.
Sam sighed softly. They were neglecting themselves. Months of living out of vending machines had shrunk them, months of watching their father waste away wore them down. Sam was tired all the time, no matter how long he slept. Conversation between them was minimal. It had been ages since Dean cracked a poorly-timed one-liner. Even longer since they had something to smile about. He had hurt for so long, Sam feared he was numb now.
He blinked, feeling the way John's thin skin moved under his thumb. His father's eyes were dull, his skin almost translucent. His muscles had melted away, revealing every bone in his once-solid body. His hair was thin and greasy; tonight was bath night. One tube carrying liquid food entered his body, one tube carrying urine led out. Dean's words faded as Sam focused on his father's breathing. Raspy inhalation, gurgling exhalation. In, out, in, out. Slowly, steadily. In, out, in, out…
Sam sat up a little straighter, waiting for his father's chest to rise.
His own heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Sam's own breathing stopped.
He felt something then, a part of him dropped away, immediately filled with coldness.
"Dean," he whispered, leaning a little closer, his hand still gripping his father's tightly.
Dean glanced up and did a double take, staring at Sam.
Tears filled his eyes and Sam wasn't sure if they were from grief or relief. His throat closed, his heart burned in his chest.
They stared at each other over the still body.
o0O0o
THREE DAYS LATER
A light snow danced around them, the small crystalline flakes floating on a barely-there wind. It dusted their hair, their shoulders, the grass and the gravestone. The frigid air burned his nostrils and Sam sniffed, rubbing his nose with the back of his wrist, pretending the weather was the only cause of his runny nose.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, staring at the small, nondescript stone. All the appropriate precautions taken care of, they agreed that the remains should be buried next to their mother. It was, after all, where John always wanted to be.
There were no flowers, no witnesses. No ceremonies. Just two brothers, a plastic container of ashes, a couple shovels, prayers, and a gray sky.
Sam stared at the freshly turned dirt, his vision blurry and his fingers numb. Next to him, Dean stood just as steadily, just as forlornly, just as lost. Sam knew something came next- they couldn't stand here forever- but what it was, he didn't know.
At last, Dean took a deep breath. "We should go." His breath came out in white puffs.
Sam remained where he was, the tears in his eyes threatening to freeze.
"Sammy."
Sam swallowed thickly, tears hanging heavily in his eyelashes. A small part of him was relieved by it all, that it was finally over, but more than that, there was emptiness. Regret. He had wasted so much time, arguing, butting heads, going to school. He should have listened more, tried harder. He should have been a better son.
Dean's hand dropped onto his shoulder, squeezing. "Don't," he sighed.
A snowflake landed on Sam's nose and he swiped at it furiously. "Don't what?"
Dean stared at the ground, his nose red. "He was proud of you, Sam."
Sam blinked, his tears blurring but not falling. Dean's shouldn't have to offer support, and Sam would not ask for it. Not now. Not while Dean's hand was still warming his shoulder, anchoring him, grounding him. Distracting him from the raw, open wound in his empty chest. Proving that not all had been lost.
Everything was silent for a moment, only the twirling snowflakes moving about.
"What do we do now?" Sam asked. It was the most honest question he'd ever asked and he waited intently for the answer, studying Dean's profile.
Dean's hand slipped away gently and he immediately curled his arms around himself. "We pick up where we left off," Dean said, sounding more like he was asking. "Got wind of a gig a few states over. Easy." Dean shuffled his feet, twirling the point of the shovel in the fine dusting of snow. A few feet away, the Impala sparkled.
Finally Dean shifted and their gazes locked. Wide, red eyes. Tears. Pain.
And beneath it all, hope.
Confidently, Dean said in a broken voice, "Dad would have wanted it that way."
As they walked away from the grave, the sun broke free from the clouds and the snowflakes burst into flashes of silver, swirling silently around them.
o0O0o
It came upon them slowly and silently, as all skillful predators do. Fingers like black roots burrowed deeply and firmly, moving so slowly and delicately that none of them felt it happening. It waited; long, thin fingers of poison bracing itself for the moment it would seize-
But they could not be ripped apart.
END