A/N: This fic is winding down--there's one more section after this, so hopefully that will tie up the remaining loose ends. This seems a bit anticlimactic, but this is how the fic came to me--my goal was to not disrupt the canon timeline as we knew it and so this blends these events into the rest. I don't know. You'll see :) Thanks so much for those who are following and leaving reviews--it so makes my day (and trust me, right now, I need that--I'm in post-spring break letdown--it's funny how nice it is to go a whole week without spending every day with students). All other notes in chapter one.

Chapter Four

The doctor lets him stay while he checks Sam out this morning. He's already sent Dean back to the motel to shower and to eat, and so he's alone with Sam during morning rounds.

It's only been three days, but John already knows the routine. He knows what to expect, and watches the doctor with some secure sense of purpose.

Dr. Vaught is friendly in a detached way, and tries to make small talk with John, and often comments nicely on Sam's character, as if he can pick up Sam's personality through his stethoscope and monitors. He checks all the machines, listens carefully to Sam's heart, then checks for Sam's level of consciousness.

This is the part that John watches closely, hoping to see something in his boy as the doctor leans close and pokes and prods his son.

So far there's been nothing, not a twitch, which the doctor has tried to be realistic and gentle about. Because the machines suggest that Sam's level of consciousness is rising, his brain waves are stronger, but there's still no sign yet.

Today is different.

It's the same tests, same things, but this time when the doctor uses cold water on Sam's ear, Sam flinches.

Not a lot, just a little. His head turns slightly to the left and a tiny mewl of discomfort finds its way around the tube.

John is up like a flash, looking expectantly into Sam's face.

The doctor tries again. "Sam, can you hear me?"

Another moan and this time Sam's hands rise up of the bed, flailing a little. They don't make it very far before Sam goes just as still as before.

The doctor is all smiles as he pulls away and jots something down on Sam's chart.

John just stares, just waits, looking between Sam and the doctor.

"Sam is responding to stimuli," he announces, a hint of pleasure in his voice. "This means he's coming out of the coma."

John continues to stare, his mouth slightly open. "So when will he wake up?"

"Give him time, Mr. Winchester," Dr. Vaught advises, returning Sam's chart to the end of the bed. "His EEG is much stronger and now that he's showing response to stimuli, I'm very optimistic. But each patient works on their own time frame. Sam's already taking more and more breaths on his own, we should have him weaned off the ventilator by the end of the day so we can reduce his sedation and then we'll see how he starts responding."

The doctor says it all like it's such good news that John wants to be excited, wants to believe. But Sam's still lying there, unconscious and intubated, and John just wants his son back.

When he's alone again with Sam, he settles back into his chair, leaning in close to Sam's bedside, watching Sam with all he has.

He wonders if Sam was awake at all while buried, if he remembers things like Dean does, if he was scared, if he cried, if he believed his dad would save him.

He wonders if Sam passed out believing in that, he wonders if Sam will know his father almost left him for dead, if Sam will be okay, and if Sam will ever forgive him for this, for everything.

-o-

When Dean hears that Sam is waking up, Dean changes and doesn't really look back.

The fear and the worry that had crippled his son, that had made him seem young and vulnerable, nearly vanish altogether.

Now he sits by Sam's side with the confidence and ego that defines him. There's no if anymore, it's just when and Dean's sure to tell that to everyone he can, even though all the doctors and nurses are already well aware of that. He doesn't even listen when they try to tell him that Sam might not be the same, that Sam might have some troubles, because Dean knows his little brother, and Sammy's coming out of this just fine.

John doesn't know where the kid gets the strength, but it leaves him a little awestruck. He'll sit back in his chair and just watch as his oldest son talks to Sam. And he doesn't talk to his kid brother like it's the hospital bedside that it is; no, Dean talks to him like it's just the two of them fighting over who gets to ride shotgun or the best way to waste a spirit.

True to his word, Dr. Vaught extubates Sam that afternoon, a process that makes Sam gag and choke. But once it's out Sam's still breathing, a little heavy and strained, but breathing, and Dean's patter of conversation rises a notch. Now he's touching Sam, patting him on the shoulder, fiddling with his hair--anything to elicit a reaction from the younger boy.

Sam never could deny Dean anything, so John isn't really surprised when Dean's antics pay off and Sam opens his eyes.

"Hey there, little brother," Dean says cheerily, leaning down carefully to get in Sam's line of vision.

Sam's face contorts in a grimace and his mouth tries to open. His eyes struggle for focus and his breathing picks up as he tries to make sense of the world.

"Easy," Dean soothes, and John sucks in a breath and holds it.

Finally Sam's eyes focus and settle on his brother. Dean's smile splits his face wide and John thinks he can almost see tears in Dean's eyes. Sam swallows hard, wincing as he does. His forehead scrunches up and he tries to speak.

The sound that comes out is garbled and awful-sounding, but it sounds like Dean all the same.

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean says. "I'm right here."

Sam just stares for a minute more before he blinks again, sluggishly. His eyes are drifting and there's a flash of dimple on his cheek.

"You're going to be fine," Dean whispers, and for the first time, John believes him.

-o-

For a few days, it's like they've regressed fifteen years. Sam is needy and withdrawn, and Dean is everpresent and effusive. John's not sure where he fits in, but he's always there, because it seems like the least he can do.

It takes a day, but by Sam's fourth day in the hospital, he's fully aware. The tests all come back with encouraging results, and Sam's being cleared from significant damage. His memory is gone from the night of the attack, and the kid seems edgy and uncertain, but all the higher reasoning skills are there, and the doctor thinks Sam's withdrawal is psychological.

John tries not to think about it, tries not to consider the idea that both his boys may be damaged to a point that needs help, because if it he ignores it long enough, he thinks it can normalize, he thinks it can all work out, and they can go on just like before.

But Dean will hardly leave at all now that Sam's awake, always perched next to Sam's bed, waiting to see his eyes and greet him with a familiar smile. That can't be good for Dean, he knows, because his oldest son needs space and nourishment and reassurance too. Convincing Dean to even go to the bathroom is like work anymore.

He only can do it when Sam's asleep, and he appeals to the logic that Dean's no good to Sam if he's neglecting himself, and he watches his son shuffle out of the room and wonders how he ever created a son that attuned to the needs of others. He wishes Dean could stand on his own, that Dean could admit his own needs and fears.

But there's no time for that, especially since Sam's stirring.

He's already moving to Sam's side, but he's not fast enough and Sam whimpers to awareness. Sam's still more emotional than John is comfortable with, and the doctors say it's pretty normal even if Sam can't remember. It hurts him to see, to witness, because Sam is strong and independent, and this has left his son broken and that's his fault, just like it's all been his fault.

"Dean?" Sam asks, blinking heavily and his voice still strained and raspy from the tube.

John leans over him, takes a risk and lets his hand rest on Sam's head like he would when he was a child. "He's just down the hall," John assures him.

Sam's eyes are focusing now and he recognizes John and seems to relax a little. "He's okay, right? He's coming back?"

"Of course," John says easily.

Sam nods a little, and shifts. "I don't want to be alone."

John swallows hard against that. "Never," he promises.

-o-

John's getting himself some coffee and when he comes back he hears Sam laughing.

"Whatever, man," Sam is saying. "All I could think about was how you wouldn't be scared."

He can barely see Dean, sitting in the chair at the end of Sam's bed. He's looking at his hands, trying really hard to smile. "When Dad found me first, and I realized you were still down there..." His voice trails off.

Sam just snorts, but his tone of voice carries of level of compassion that takes John by surprise. "I never doubted that you'd find me," Sam says. "You always do."

At this, Dean forces a laugh. "A little brain damage makes you all girly, Sammy," he says.

He can almost hear Sam rolling his eyes. "Yeah, so what's your excuse?"

And both boys laugh and John's heart aches. When he finally walks in, sipping his coffee, both boys look brighter and healthier than they have in weeks.

-o-

By the end of Sam's week there, Dean has worked wonders on his kid brother, and the nurses and doctors dote on Sam and tell him what an amazing kid he has. And Sam does flourish in a way he doesn't at home, grinning shyly at their praise, going above and beyond just because they ask him nicely and smile at him while he does it. With Sam's strength returning, Dean's comfort level skyrockets, and John can see shades of how things used to be. Dean is snarky and calming, Sam is tenacious and petulant, and he's gruff and detached through it all. They're clinging to that dynamic for a sense of normalcy none of them feel, and so far it's working okay.

As usual, Sam's obedient to anyone but him, so he's eating his dinner like a good little patient, and telling John how tired he is of being here. "I'm missing so much school," he explains, so logically and plaintively.

Except it's not the right argument at all to make with John, and John feels his frustrations creep back in. It's been easier lately, with so much focus on getting Sam okay, but now that the kid is almost there, okay is wearing thin. "You need to gain your strength back," John says, because he doesn't want to admit that he's afraid of seeing his son so weak.

Because John is afraid. He's afraid to take his boys out of this hospital and back into a world where he's not sure he can protect them. It means more work, more risks, and more energy, and if they can barely survive each other's company in a hospital, he's not sure how they'll manage in seedy motel rooms.

"I don't need that much strength to study math," Sam grumbles, shoveling a bite into his mouth.

John tries not to glare. The doctors say that Sam needs to be kept calm and relaxed and that he needs to be upbeat and positive. Clearly they know nothing about living with a teenager who doesn't see things his way at all. "No," he agreed. "But you do need to get yourself ready to get back into training. You've been out of it for almost a week."

Sam's eyes darken and a haunted scowl crosses his forehead. "Can't we take a break? Spend some time as a family or something?"

At that, John's a little incredulous. He raises his eyebrows at the boy. "A break? You think evil will just take a break?"

He knows it isn't fair to say, not after this, but John can't stop himself. It's the same conversation he's had so many times. So often that he's not even surprised by Sam's retort. "After all this, I'd think we'd be able to see that life is more than hunting."

"I'm just trying to protect you," John erupts, shoving himself off the chair.

Sam's a smart kid, and he can be a sweet kid, but he's just a kid. "Great, which is how I ended up here," he mutters.

And that about does it, it's about all John can handle. It doesn't matter that Sam's right, that Sam's hit the nail on the head, that Sam's managed to expose all of his fears and doubts right there. John's prouder than he knows how to deal with. He stands. "Fine," he says. "Then I'll just leave you to fend for yourself for awhile and see how well it goes."

He makes it in a huff to the door when Sam's voice stops him. "Dad."

Sam's voice cracks and there's a suspicious tone of fear and pleading in it.

John turns to look at his son, and is surprised to find the boy strickened.

"Just stay, okay?" Sam asks, and John's heart breaks.

He's not mad at Sam, he's mad at himself. Mad that he couldn't save his son from this, mad that he hasn't managed to give his boys the lives they deserve, mad that he's failed so much. Mad that he shouldn't be reaming out his son, but telling him that he's right, that he loves him. But he can't say that, doesn't know how to say that.

In that moment, his son's not rebellious, his son's not petulant, his son's not a hunter. His son is just a boy who's lived through more than any kid should, and all John can do is yell when he's not living up to impossible standards.

He doesn't say a word, just steps back in the room and sinks back into his chair. Sam watches him, a little scared and a little nervous, and waits a minute before he starts to pick at his food again. But the energy and life seems to have abated in Sam, and he barely touches the rest of his food. Instead he pushes it away and mumbles something about being tired before curling on his side and going to sleep.

John sits there, watching Sam breathe, and tries to figure out the balance. How can he protect them without preparing them? How can he prepare them without putting them in danger?

There are no answers, just Sam's quiet snores, as the hours fade away.

-o-

Sam's going to be okay, John doesn't doubt that at all now, and Dean doesn't even need to hear it. John's anxious to get them home, out of this hospital, because the longer they stay, the more the doctors seem to want to talk about each boys' psychological states, and he doesn't think he can risk either boy talking to a shrink.

Besides, the hospital is just a reminder of what happened, of injury and illness, and they're all ready to put that behind them, so John gets Sam checked out as soon as he can. Dean is restless, nearly driving the staff insane, and Sam is moody and difficult, nearly driving John insane.

Sam's a little wobbly, but Dean's right there, ready if Sam needs anything. They don't speak, they don't have to, and Dean is so close to his brother that they're practically touching, but not quite. His boys stand by themselves, the proximity enough to keep all of them upright.

"You boys ready?" he asks, shouldering their things.

Sam scowls a little. "Let's just go."

John says nothing in acquiescence. Instead he moves them forward. The staff asked them to wait for a nurse to get a wheelchair, but he's pretty sure none of them want to deal with that, so he leads their trek out anyway.

The walk isn't long, but it's tiring, especially for Sam. Sam gripes a little for good measure, but despite the exhaustion and the frustration and all the crap that's happened, it's pretty clear that Sam is anxious to get home.

In that moment, it's a little like seeing both his boys for the first time again. Watches them interact, watches the nuances of their movement. Each boy holds so much potential, so many emotions, and John doesn't know how many he's missed out on.

Dean will be strong even when he's not, because he feels like he needs to be here for everyone else. It's something beautiful and worrisome about his son.

Sam's different, though, and not as easy to figure out. John can see a lot of feelings in Sam--a lot of anger, a lot of resentment, a lot of pain--but the one thing John doesn't see is hate.

Instead he sees a boy who wants more and never gets it, no matter what he does. He sees a boy who just wants to hear I love you but will shout I hate you to get his point across.

John knows, because when he says no, he really means I'm afraid for you.

But they're Winchesters, and they've never been good at talking, and sometimes now, John has to admit, talking to Sam can be like talking through six feet of dirt.

-o-

John thinks they may be in the clear, that this event made fade away like most of the other tragedies in their lives. Sam's been at home for nearly three days and he's adjusting well, moving forward, and despite small comments to the contrary, Sam's flourishing in his training. Dean is nearly bursting with himself, he'll even leave home for his part time job and the occasional social outing, and it's beginning to feel good and normal.

Until they find the bodies on the news.

Seven of them, just like John suspected, all buried in unmarked plots in the same cemetery John had found the boys. It is a horrific scene, and it's splashed all over the news, the newspapers, everything.

He really should have thought about the effect that would have on the boys, but he doesn't think about it until it's already too late.

He's making dinner and the boys are in the living room, bickering and watching TV. Then the apartment gets quiet.

John's attuned to that kind of thing and pokes his head out to make a joke at his children's sudden silence. But then he sees them, both staring at the TV.

The TV has images of body bags, holes in the ground, and cemetery plots.

Dean looks blank, his face slack, as if he's not quite sure what to think.

Sam looks like he's about to pass out, pale and shaky and weak.

John strides over and shuts of the TV. "I'm sorry," he says because he can't think of anything else. "You shouldn't have had to..."

But he can't finish, because Dean's looking at him with that look of trust and fear again and Sam's not really looking at anything at all.

-o-

That night Sam wakes up from a nightmare screaming and crying and babbling.

"God, Dad, make it stop, make it stop," he's begging when John and Dean come to his bedside. They pick him up, put their hands on him, try to soothe him, but Sam's sobbing with it, thrashing. "I can't breathe, please, I don't want to die."

It's one of the hardest things John's ever had to witness, and he sees Dean breaking with his brother's words. His sons are broken together in this, even though neither will admit it, Dean won't even admit it in his sleep, the one place where Sam's not quite able to let it go.

It passes and Sam calms, drifting back to sleep, his brother not far behind. And as John sits there, he watches his sons on the bed, Sam entangled on the sheets, Dean on top of them, he can't stop himself from wondering.

This is his family, his boys, all he has left. But they're fractured and difficult and John doesn't know how to fix it.

He's wondered for years what he can forgive, how much insubordination he can take, how much defiance he can stomach. Sam has pushed him and tested him, and they still haven't broken yet, but John wonders if there will be a day.

Just like he wonders how much Dean can take, how much Dean can obey, how far Dean will follow orders before he realizes that John's making this up as he goes.

And, for goodness' sake, he wonders when he'll let his sons be boys. When he'll just recognize that Sam's desire for more isn't selfish, isn't wrong. When he'll tell Dean that life isn't all about orders, that maybe sometimes he should be more like Sam. Both his boys deserve more, need more. Only one of them knows that, and he wonders how far gone he'd be if Sam didn't call him on it, just like how he wonders how long ago he would have lost all his sense of purpose if Dean didn't reassure him of it.

But for the first time he wonders, really wonders, how much he can do before he's beyond redemption. He doesn't know how far he can take his sons, how far he can push them before they fall, how deep he can take them into all this until they are consumed. He doesn't know how many years are worth vengeance, how many hunts are worth Mary's legacy, how many moments of happiness and joy he can miss before he's passed the point of honor and reached the depths of obsession.

He leaves before he cries but he doesn't sleep at all that night. He thinks about Mary, about the boys when they were little, about the cemetery, about the seven body bags, and all the families who were grieving that night.

-o-

They don't talk about it, not really, and all of them move on. Sam still blanches a little when they go to cemeteries, and Dean is more vigilant than ever of his little brother, and John does all he can to plan and perfect and plan some more.

He doesn't tell them much about the man that did this, and they don't really ask, and the status quo returns with a silent promise to do better next time.

But Sam grows more defiant, and John's patience runs thin. He's always tried to protect his sons, and he doesn't understand why Sam won't have any part of it. It's like sometimes Sam forgets how close they came, how dangerous the darkness is.

Other times, it's like Sam knows more than he should, like Sam was in that crypt to listen to Garrett tell his plan and unearth John's deepest fears and weaknesses.

So John fights harder and louder, anything to keep Sam in check. Not because it's right. Because that's how it has to be.

And it works. Most of the time.

But John knows sometimes that he's lying to them and that he's lying to himself. He remembers it all, every second of it like it's yesterday. He was helpless and incapable and it's been nothing but a mere man who had nearly taken his children away from him.

John still doesn't know how Sam even survived, but sometimes he's grateful to hear his son yell just to know he still has breath in his body.

Other times, though, when John is not so sure and not so strong, it's like they're both still underground, dying slowly while their father rages against the dying of the light, both waiting for grace, for freedom, for life. He's kept them there for 16 years, telling them just one hunt more, one more kill, just one more day, and they're holding their breath.

But he's digging. He's always been digging. Sometimes he doesn't know which ways up or down, sometimes it seems like whenever he unburies one boy, he's just throwing the dirt onto the other. Sometimes, often he feels like he'll never get there, that he'll never really set them free, but he'll keep trying the only way he knows how.

-o-

John was pretty sure that the night he dug his sons up out of the ground was the worst night of his life. He still feels the terror, the numbness, the encompassing sense of failure of that night. It still haunts his dreams, his darkest thoughts, lingering with him, never to be forgotten.

But tonight he knows he was wrong.

He's tried everything to protect them, everything to make them understand. It's worked with Dean, but he's always losing ground with Sam. Part of him has always believed, though, that his son would understand, that when push came to shove, Sam would get it and stay with his family.

But push has come to shove, and Sam let himself be shoved right out that door.

John's tried punishment, John's tried threats, John's tried everything. He's yelled, he's guilted, he's tried everything short of laying a hand on the boy. And tonight he tries an ultimatum, his last huge gamble, and Sam calls his bluff.

Sam's gone, and so are his meager belongings, and Dean's looking at him with that look of fear and trust, like he expects John to make it right. But John can't do anything, can't make Sam come back, can't make this all right.

The world is vast and the world is dangerous and he's trained his sons, he's trained them well, but now Sam's alone. Alone and vulnerable, and John's line still stands in the sand and he can't cross it now.

That night, John dreams of the cold night, of the shovel in his hands, of finding Dean. And in his dream, Dean asks, "Why didn't you save Sam?"

John doesn't have an answer. He never has, and he just stands there, his mouth open and wonder where it went wrong.