Darkness Shall Follow

A/N: Thanks again to everyone who has spent the time to read and review--it makes this process so very, very fun. All other notes and warnings are in chapter one.

Chapter Three

-o-

It's pretty clear the doctors and nurses don't really want them in the examination room while they work on Sam, but it's a small hospital, and there are questions that need to be asked, questions that need to be answered, so they humor John and Dean.

"What happened?"

It's such a simple question, such an obvious question, but John realizes he doesn't have a good story to tell them. He and Dean are back against the wall, watching, not quite close enough to hover. Dean doesn't seem to even hear the question, his focus is so intent on Sam. But John does, but doesn't want to.

"Sir? What happened?"

"The boys were kidnapped," he says, and his voice sounds funny. "Someone took them in the cemetery and buried them alive."

The entire medical team stops and stares at him, jaws dropping a little, not sure whether to be sympathetic or horrified.

"What?" the doctor asked.

A monitor started bleeping, drawing the medical team's attention back to the trauma at hand.

"The serial killer," John manages while they work. "The one who's been taking people. He tried to take my sons."

"And bury them?" The doubt in the doctor's voice is evident.

"It's true," Dean says, and everyone is so surprised to hear him speak that they all pause again.

Dean glances around nervously. "Sam and I were walking home and then things just went dark. When I woke up, I was in a small dark place. I couldn't get out. I thought...I thought I was going to die."

Dean's lie is almost true, far too true, and John is shocked by his son's ability to get him out of trouble.

The doctor is trying to multitask, trying to focus on the incredible story and his patient, but it's hard.

"How is he?" John asks, straining to see more of what was going on. In all the action, all the flurry, Sam is still unmoving.

They put a mask on Sam's face, hook up two IVs, and cut away his clothes to examine him. Sam is still and pale, pale and still, and John can see the frown on the doctor's face as he listens to Sam's chest.

"Was he conscious when you found him?"

John shakes his head. "No."

The frown deepens. "Has he shown any sign of awareness whatsoever?"

There's a nurse reading a monitor. "His O2 levels are still falling," she says.

The doctor moves to respond when another alarm wildly goes off. "He's seizing," the doctor announces. "Let's roll him to his side."

Watching Sam seize is surreal. His long limbs jerk, his head bounces, his entire body flails and there seems to be so much of Sam, too much of Sam. The doctor rolls Sam so he's facing John and Dean, and John can see the increase in blue in Sam's face and feels himself wanting to give in once and for all to the panic that's been barely at bay.

It's Dean who beats him to it, though, running toward Sam, as if to comfort his kid brother, save him. It's just second nature to Dean, and John's pretty sure Dean's not thinking anything through right now.

Then there's a commotion and a nurse is pushing Dean away, yelling at John to take care of his son because they need to work, they need some space, for Sam's sake.

But Dean's incoherent with it, completely, because Sam's never been this messed up before, they've never been this messed up before, and there's just not enough oxygen in this room at all.

Somehow he manages to grab Dean, who's not struggling with any strength at all. It's all just leaving his son and there are tears on his face and John wants to break down too.

But that won't fix anything. It never has. He cried and mourned for weeks and days but it didn't bring Mary back. It didn't give his sons a mother.

He failed that, and he doesn't want to think about failing this. He doesn't want to think about anything at all. Not about graves and shovels and seizures and serial killers.

He practically pushes his oldest son to the waiting room, and Dean stumbles forward in blind obedience. When they finally get there, John makes Dean sit, forces him to a chair before he remembers to breathe and gets a good look at his son.

Dean's a mess. He's covered with crusted dirt and his chest is heaving. Suspicious tracks smear the dirt on his face and he's looking at John desperately. "I need to be with him," he says, his voice breaking a little. "You said he's my responsibility."

It's the same line he's driven into Dean his entire life. So often it just made things easier. It let him focus on the hunt, and Dean could tend to Sam's trivial needs. It's his support system.

But it's wrong, he thinks with a new pain striking through his chest. It's wrong. "You're both my responsibility," he says, keeping a steady hand on Dean's shoulder as he crouches in front of him.

Dean just stares at him, almost like he's looking through him, and then his chin quivers just for a second before Dean takes a breath and visibly steadies himself.

And he loves his son, so much, that suddenly he can't take it. Dean is only 20 years old, and he's trying to be strong for his father. Few things bother Dean. Few things make it past the rough exterior that he's created, that they've created. But Dean's seen too much tonight, done too much. From being unearthed himself, to finding his brother practically dead, to seeing his brother seize, John knows this is too much to expect Dean to deal with.

It's too much for him to deal with.

They get hurt, sometimes, it's part of the job. But they get hurt on the job. Saving people. Killing the bad guy.

For only the second time in 16 years, this time they were victims, pure and simple.

This time there's no smoke and no fire, but he has two traumatized sons and the lingering guilt that it's all his fault.

He doesn't realize Dean is studying him until he speaks.

"Why didn't you save Sam?" Dean asks, almost in accusation.

John flinches, moving tiredly to the chair next to Dean. He feels old and weary. "I didn't know which was which," John tries to explain. "I just...I just dug. I did what I could."

It's weak, and it's not enough, and there isn't anger, none at all, but pain in Dean's eyes. He almost wishes there was.

"What happened, Dean?" he asks finally, looking for some way to make sense of this night.

Dean looks hard at the floor.

"Dean?" His voice is sharper than he intends.

"Sam and I were waiting, just like you told us to. Our packs were right next to us and we both had our guns. We were sitting next to each other, right along the ditch. There was no one there. There was nothing there. We didn't even see it coming."

Dean speaks like he hopes it's all a nightmare, that somehow he'll wake up and the tragedy will not be so real.

So John does what he does best. He makes a promise that he's not sure he can keep, but he won't admit that ever, not until it's far, far too late. "It's okay," he says. "Sam's going to be okay."

It's such a ridiculous lie that John himself feels guilty for telling it.

But Dean believes him. He doesn't know how or why but Dean believes every word he's saying. Dean believes in him. Not because he's right, not because he's earned it, but because it's what Dean does. It's how Dean operates. It's all Dean has.

He's created a strong, proud, capable, and utterly dependent boy. His good little soldier is perfect to a fault. Too willing to accept, to be placated even when he shouldn't be.

For a second, time freezes, slows down, something, and John feels himself separate from reality once again. He's seeing it all, everything--he sees himself in the chair, not nearly close enough to Dean, looking, waiting, doing nothing. Nothing.

Dean is hunched over, curved over. His face still has faded tears that John thinks may never go away, and he can't stop moving, can't stop twitching, but he believes and it's written all over him--in his face, in his slouch, in his jitters. He believes, and it hurts him to believe, it costs him everything he has, almost cost him his life, almost cost him his brother.

John wants to reach out and touch him, hug him, make it right, make it better, but he can't move no more than he can fix anything anymore. Because he did this. This is his fault. He didn't bury his sons in the ground, but he brought them here. He put them in this situation and he can't run from that and he wishes like hell Dean would just let himself realize it, say it, and make it real.

But Dean says nothing, does nothing, just sits next to his father silently, waiting and trusting.

And John puts his head in his hands, thinking he should pray, but not remembering how.

-o-

The wait seems long, interminable, and it passes in silence. John just wants this to be over. He just wants to take his boys and get the hell out of this town and never look back. He's not sure what he'd trade for that at this point, but he's pretty sure it's a lot, if anyone would just listen.

The doctor is there and John realizes it's not over yet. The doctor is middle aged and gray and tired looking. He comes over to John without asking and when John doesn't get up, he sinks into the chair next to him. "Mr. Winchester," he begins in a perfunctory way. "I'm Dr. Vaught," he says. "I was the one treating Sam."

There's a pause and John finally asks, "How is he?"

Dean is looking at the doctor almost in fear, with a desperate hope.

"Well, he's stable for now," he says, but it's not reassuring. "But I'm afraid Sam's slipped into a coma. When deprived of oxygen, the body makes choices, triages its parts, and shuts down everything else to try to survive."

John's listening and he's nodded but he's not sure it makes sense. He hears it, but he doesn't know how to understand it.

The doctor is watching him, carefully, and waits until he's sure John can handle it before he continues. "You saw that he suffered a seizure, and I would guess that wasn't the only one. Seizures are the brain's way of responding to trauma, so it worries me that Sam has suffered at least one. We do have him on medication to help prevent any future ones, and his EEG clearly shows some signs of continued seizure activity, which we're watching very closely."

There's a brief pause and the doctor forces him to make eye contact.

"He was also hypothermic when you brought him in, but we've already got his body temp returning to normal, so it shouldn't be a problem. In fact, the hypothermia probably saved Sam's life. The cold slowed down Sam's body enough to keep his brain from too much damage. Had he been at normal temperature, it's likely your son would be dead already."

He pauses again and swallows and John feels his insides go cold.

"Mr. Winchester, we also did an MRI. The scans indicate there may be damage to Sam's temporal lobe." His voice is soft and gentle and his eyes are sympathetic. "The seizure may be indicative of damage. The brain can only survive so long when deprived of oxygen. If it goes too long, brain cells begin to die. We'll need to run more tests to try to confirm damage."

John feels like his world has fallen apart all over again. It's like losing Mary, digging the boys up, dying. He blinks up at the doctor, his jaw slack. "When will we know?"

The doctor's smile is small. "We can run a few more tests, but it's impossible to say until Sam wakes up."

John can feel Dean flinch at the words like they are blows. He swallows hard against the lump in his throat. "Can we see him?"

-o-

Sam looks better than before, in the sense that he's lost the tinge of blue that had so unnerved John earlier.

But the kid is hooked up machines and monitors and John hates that more than the blueness almost.

He hears Dean inhale sharply and he knows this is hard on him. He thinks he should comfort him, but he can't make himself move. Instead he stands very still, his knees locked so they won't give in, and watches his son breathe.

He studies his features, looks at him with an intensity he hasn't expressed since the boys were newborns and he first held them.

Most of Sam is covered with a sheet and his hands are folded neatly on top of his stomach. His hair falls limply from his head, exposing his smooth forehead. The bed looks messy and cluttered with all the tubes and wires and John wishes he could clean it up somehow. Sam always did like things to be neat.

"God, Dad," Dean breathes, shoving his hands into his pockets, his shoulders sagging.

John doesn't know how to answer, so he just keeps watching Sam, almost afraid to blink.

There's tape securing the tube in Sammy's mouth, and it looks uncomfortable and itchy and it's hiding the mole right next to his boy's mouth. He wants to take it off for some reason, but he knows that's a stupid idea, a stupid thought and he wishes he could think of something a little smarter, a little more comforting.

But as he sits down, it hits him again what happened. That his boys were buried alive. That he nearly lost them both. That Sam's in a coma and could have brain damage and that Dean's in shock and probably some form of posttraumatic stress and he doesn't know how to fix any of it.

-o-

Tragedy is solidifying, if nothing else, and he seems to remember Mary telling him once that sometimes God lets people hurt so they can learn and grow.

It's just one of the reasons that he hates God, because he's not sure what good he can learn from this. Because he's useless and helpless, and all he wants to do is make it right. To fix it. To make it better.

He can't.

There are no promises he can make. There are no tricks he can pull from his bag. For nearly three days all he can do is sit and wait like any other human being on the face of this earth.

In the hours as he waits by Sam's bedside, he thinks a lot, thinks and remembers. Dean stays with him, and they go only enough to appease the hospital staff. But their minds are always here, always with Sam, and they don't really have any other place to go, no one else to call, to get support from. They say they need to be there for Sam, but John wonders if they need Sam to be there for them. Because sitting and staring and sleeping certainly isn't helping Sam.

But it's all John can do. His mind seems vulnerable, his defenses all downed by the medicine and the machines. And the memories come from nowhere, some pleasant, some not, more troubling than soothing.

-o-

He remembers Dean's first kill. It had been a warm night, the summer in Alabama, nothing like tonight, but he still smells the blood in the air. Dean's aim had been perfect. The entire thing was flawless. But he could still see it, the hollowness in Dean's eyes the second he made the kill shot.

At the time, he'd clapped Dean on the shoulder and told him he was proud.

Pride had swelled in the boy, and the hollowness had been replaced, which had just made John prouder. That's all Dean needed--a little approval, small shows of love and trust, and the boy flourished. John had never seen the hollowness again.

Until this.

He sees it now. He sees it in the way Dean looks at his little brother, like his heart's broken, and then when he looks at his father like he's trying to pretend like it's not.

He wonders why he lets that slide, why he lets Dean pretend to be strong, why he forces Dean to be strong, to be someone that he isn't. Dean deserves more than that, deserves normalcy and stability. And somewhere inside of him, John remembers the little boy Dean had been, how happy and how free and how pure he'd been, and he wishes sometimes that Dean fought for that just as much as Sam does.

But when it comes to fighting, they all have enough of that. John likes to blame his youngest for that, say it's Sam rebellious nature, but he knows that's not really true.

He remembers when Sam was born, the first time he held him. Sam was so small, so delicate, so perfect, and his small face had scrunched up in a cry of discontent. John had rocked him, soothed him gently, and John can still hear himself whispering promises to his newborn son. Promises of love and protection and support. Promises every father owes his sons.

Sam can't remember them, and John knows he's never really followed through on any of them, and that Dean can at least appreciate what he lost. Sam can't recognize what he's never had, but he's always yearned for them, and it's made things difficult. He can't really blame the kid for wanting what he deserves, no matter how it comes across. He shouldn't blame him, and he hates himself a little that he does.

John watches both his sons sleep--Sam on the bed, the machines blinking all around him, Dean in the chair, curled up awkwardly. They are both waiting, waiting on each other, waiting on him, waiting for the chances they should have, the chances that John sometimes withheld from them in the name of the greater good.

He has an urge to brush Sam's hair out of his eyes and to cover Dean with a blanket, to do something to ease their rest. But the only things he can really think of that would make a difference are things he should have done two decades ago when all of this began.

-o-

The doctor only manages to convince John to leave Sam's side when the cops come and want to talk to him. He should have expected this, but he's not really thinking straight. He doesn't want to talk to them, doesn't want to talk to anybody, but there's not much choice, and he knows there are probably seven other bodies in that cemetery that need to be dug up and he's not the one to do it.

That's when the doctor also wants to check Dean out, since the staff slowly put together that Dean may need help too. Dean doesn't think so, and John doesn't want to make him, but everyone's looking at him to be the adult, so he puts a simple hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Just for a few minutes, son," he says. "While I talk to the cops."

Dean looks like he wants to protest, but John narrows his eyes and makes it an order, and Dean follows a nurse out of the room wordlessly, casting a glance at his brother before he disappears into the hall.

The cops, a pair of young kids, both in their twenties, wait for Dean to leave before they start. "Do you want to go to the hallway?" one asks, looking purposefully at Sam.

"No," John says, looking at his boy as well. Sam's still in a coma, still stretched out on the bed, and John's trying to get that image out of his mind, but the only other one he comes up with is the image of Sam in the coffin. "No, we'll stay."

They nod. "Can you tell us what happened, Mr. Winchester?"

And John doesn't even know where to begin.

-o-

He doesn't tell them about the real grave he unearthed that night. He doesn't tell them about spirits and ghosts and the reason why they move around so much. But he does tell them about Garrett, about how he abducted both boys and buried them alive. He tells them how he unburied both of them, but maybe not in time.

They tell him about the meager clues, about how this is a huge break, how they think this could be the break they're looking for.

Then they look at Sam, a little sheepish, and say they're sorry for everything, that they'll keep him informed, that if he remembers anything to please let them know. And they leave before they have to look too much at Sam.

And for the first time John thinks about Garrett, thinks about how he pulled it off. The man is smart, John doesn't doubt that, and they've been there for nearly a month and not picked up on any human trails.

He wonders how long Garrett was trailing him, how long he'd been setting him up. He shivers involuntary. Garrett knew everything. He knew how they worked. He knew what they did.

It had been perfectly executed. The graves must have been dug in advanced, ready and waiting for the boys. He imagines that he'd overheard everything they'd said that night, had seen their every move.

It does bother him that the boys broke Garrett's pattern, that it's always been one victim, and this time it was two.

But as he remembers the smirk on Garrett's face, the words he spoke, John knows this one was special for Garrett, it was personal. This hadn't been about the boys, it'd been about him and Garrett's power, pure and simple.

The hunter in John can't help but be a little awed at its perfection.

The father in John is disgusted. Someone had hunted him, his boys, had turned the tables and made him the victim.

He tentatively reaches out, takes Sam's lax hand in his and tries to feel its warmth and life. He thinks about the way that hand holds a gun, holds a pencil. The way it swats at Dean. The fingers are long and thin and strong.

It's not the hand of a victim. It's not the hand of someone's prey. It's not even the hand of a hunter.

It's the hand of his son. This is his son, and he doesn't want to forget that.

-o-

Day and night seem the same and John realizes that he doesn't know how long they've been here. Since Dean's been given the okay from the docs, John finds himself watching his son more closely. Because he knows Dean's not okay. He remembers the panic in Dean's eyes, that look of desperation and denial and fear and he knows that something inside his oldest son has to be broken, he just doesn't know what.

But Dean won't let it show. He's taken to making wise-cracks again, trying to ease the mood, even making them to his brother and laughing hard enough for all three of them to make it seem right. But he's falling flat, his humor is weak, and they're barely keeping it together.

And John hates himself, so much, for letting Dean go neglected in all of this. The doctors and nurses can see it, even the cops can, that Dean's not with it, he's not quite right, that something happened to Dean and he needs to deal with it.

There's no right time to do that though, and seeing Sam lying there so still really does give him pause, but his will is fleeting at best, so he decides to get it over with.

Dean's jiggling his knees, shifting from sitting back in his chair to leaning forward on his knees, eyes on his brother the entire time.

"Dean," he says.

Dean doesn't really reply, just sort of makes a sound in the back of his throat.

"Dean," he says again.

This time Dean looks up, a little weary and a little annoyed. "What?"

"Dean, what do you remember?" He's asked the question before, but he drops his voice down low now, to a pitch that evokes privacy and safety, the voice he used to use to murmur Dean off to sleep when Mary first died.

Dean's eyes dart down and away, and John can see the evasion clearly. "You know," Dean says, trying to smile and offering a shrug.

John just waits, knowing his silence will be enough.

Sure enough, his oldest son's attempt at humor breaks and his smile falls. He waits a second longer, his mouth trembling with unspoken words, before he finally begins. "It was so dark," Dean says, his voice shaking a little. "So dark that I couldn't tell if my eyes were open or closed."

John can't help but close his eyes in sympathy. When he opens them, Dean is looking through the wall.

"I thought I was dreaming," Dean explains. "I had to be dreaming. Because nothing could ever be that bad."

The silence is filled with the sound of Sam's ventilator, and it's oddly soothing. Dean glances at his brother.

"Then I remembered a little, about how I got there. It was so perfectly executed. We didn't even see it coming. One minute we were just sitting there, the next Sam's falling on top of me. I tried to catch him, but then everything just went blank."

John knows that Garrett had to have staked them out for hours in order to get the drop on them. His boys are young, but they're not stupid. And they're good at what they do.

Dean looks back at the wall, somewhat crestfallen. This isn't easy, and John wishes he could keep the memories from being real.

"At first I hyperventilated," Dean admitted with a sad smile, "because I couldn't move. It was completely dark and I couldn't lift my head more than two inches off the ground. I could barely even get into my pockets, but my knife was gone. I was convinced you'd kill me for losing it."

He laughs at that, at how ridiculous it seems. But his smile crumbles.

"Then I thought about Sam and just hoped that he wasn't in the same position." He stops and grits his teeth a little. "I should never have let him be in that position."

There's a sense of failure in Dean's words, and that's not something John can stomach. This isn't Dean's fault. And failure will only make them all weak.

He reaches out his hand to his son for the second time in the last day and rests it on his shoulder. All he can think is that even though Dean's the one he saved in time, that Dean's the one he got out first, he's losing this son too. "This wasn't your fault, Dean."

Dean almost looks surprised as he meets his father's eyes. "Being down there, Dad," he says, "it messes with your head. For awhile I thought I was dead, that I was dead and coming back as a spirit. Sometimes I wished I was dead. Anything to stop from feeling so helpless."

John just sighs and tries not to cry. He's never been buried alive, but he sure knows what it's like to feel helpless.