A Moment Too Late

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, its characters, its ideas or its situations, obviously.

A/N: My apologies for taking slightly longer than I said I would – this week got intensely busy, due to work and automobile related things. Other notes follow at the end.

Chapter 2

John Winchester was dead.

Even ignoring the bullet hole in the left side of his chest, it was obvious. He was far too pale, and gravity held his eyelids open and kept his glassy eyes rolled back. Where before blood had emerged steadily from the wound in his leg, the flow had slowed to mere oozing with the cessation of the heartbeat. 1

Despite this obvious fact, however, one of his sons remained in denial.

"No! Dad – Dad!" Dean couldn't muster the strength to shout or to move to his father's side, but he rasped his words earnestly, and his eyes were wide; his fists clenched in the cloth of his shirt, where he'd been clutching at his bleeding chest.

Sam, meanwhile, remained frozen where he was, eyes wide and body trembling. His hands shook violently, and he suddenly found his fingers limp and clumsy; the Colt fell to the ground with a decisive thunk. Sam's knees soon followed as his strength gave way. His throat was dry, and he swallowed, unwilling to comprehend what had just happened – what he had just done. He only realized he was crying when he felt the hot droplets land on his hands. Shaking his head, he mouthed a single word – Dad – but his vocal chords refused to work.

"Sam, wha—!" Dean's hiss broke off into a rattling cough; he struggled to control it, to sit up and to shout – but his efforts and anxiety only served to make his condition worse, and though he managed to raise himself off the floor by a few inches, he soon collapsed with an audible moan.

This seemed to at last snap Sam out of his daze. He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing again as he forced himself to focus. Dad was… Dad was… Nothing could be done about Dad, now, but Dean – Dean was alive, and he needed help, needed it soon. Sam hurried to Dean's side – blinking rapidly, but certainly not because he wanted to burst into pathetic sobbing right here and now – and once again gave a quick visual assessment of Dean's injuries. They looked bad, so Sam attempted to loop his brother's arm over his shoulder to ease in transporting the older man to the Impala – Dean required far more medical help than Sam thought he could give. However, Dean would have none of this. He feebly shoved Sam away, glaring at the younger brother with all the betrayal and fury that his unfocused gaze could manage.

"No. You – Dad…"

Sam grit his teeth and forced Dean's compliance anyway, half carrying, half dragging Dean to the Impala, opening the side door and gently hoisting his brother inside. All the while, he could feel the seething anger emanating from Dean. Sam ignored it, for now, pulling the keys to the Impala out of Dean's pocket and shutting the passenger door. He hesitated, then, eyes darting back to the cabin in which his father… and the… the Colt was there, too, useless as it was, now. Dean needed medical attention soon, but to simply leave John there seemed… wrong. And yet… to return, to face what… what was there – Sam didn't think he could do that. He had to go, now – had to get out of here, had to take Dean and go.

He all but vaulted over the car to get to the driver's side, get in, start the car and take off.

As he sped down the dirt track, headed for the main road, Sam avoided looking at Dean – at least until Dean passed out; then Sam glanced at him constantly, praying that Dean would survive whatever the bastard demon had done to him. He had to – without Dean, there was nothing left.

0=0=0

Bobby was in the kitchen, eating lunch, when he was interrupted by a ringing. He paused, fork halfway from his plate to his mouth, looking up, over to the series of phones along the wall. The one ringing was his personal line, the one whose number he only gave to fellow hunters. Bobby sighed and set down his fork, pushing away from the table and going over. He picked up the receiver.

"Yeah?"

"B-bobby?"

The voice on the other end was quiet and hoarse, and it was shaking, but Bobby thought recognized it.

"Yeah," he said, again. "Who's this?"

"It's… Sam."

"What d'y'need? Didja get your Dad back?"

Silence. Bobby's frown deepened.

"...Sam? What happened?"

"… I-I need your help." It was barely a whisper. "W-we found D-dad, and we went to the cabin to lay low, but he… oh God… he was… the demon… the demon possessed him."

Bobby felt his insides chill at that thought. John… possessed. Nothing good could have followed that, and Bobby almost wanted to tell Sam to stop right there: he didn't want to hear anymore. But he simply swallowed, instead.

"He was gonna kill us – almost killed D-Dean," Sam went on. "But… Dad broke the demon's control, and I grabbed th-the Colt, and… I… I… sh-shot him… in the leg. And I… I tried to… but the… Dad's d… Dad's gone. The demon escaped before I could…"

On the other end, Bobby could hear Sam take a long, shuddering breath before going on. "I can't go back. I'm with Dean, at the hospital, and I can't go back. But Dad's there, and he… he can't just be… left."

"And you want me to go take care of things at the cabin."

Expectant silence came through on the other end, and Bobby sighed.

"… where is the cabin? And what hospital you boys at?"

0=0=0

Sam paced back and forth beside Dean's bed in the hospital. Though he was exhausted, he refused to let himself cease moving for even a moment, refused to close his eyes for longer than it took to blink, too. If he stopped moving, he started thinking, and if he closed his eyes, he saw what he had done all over again – and neither was desirable. So he kept moving, determined both to keep from remembering and to keep from thinking. He knew that if he stopped for even a moment, he would collapse into a messy ball of grief and guilt, self-loathing and fear. There was just too much for him to deal with – too much he just couldn't handle.

Dean was unconscious, hooked up to all manner of machines keeping him alive, and so far – despite his poor condition – the man was stable. Yet, there remained a chance he would worsen and die, especially if infection set in. What if he died? Or worse, what if he never woke up but simply lingered, comatose?

And yet… what if he woke up? What would he say to Sam? Dean had told Sam not to shoot. Begged him. Sam had done it anyway – and maybe that wouldn't have been so bad, if the damn thing had worked, but it hadn't. Sam had shot too late. Yellow Eyes was still out there. Injured, yes, but alive and fully capable of coming after them – especially now, while they were vulnerable in a place so ill-protected against demons. Sam didn't think the nurses would take kindly to him drawing Devil's Traps on the ceiling or salting the window and door. They'd kick him out for sure, then, as one of the more cantankerous members of the staff had already threatened to do. It was only because Sam had looked so wretched when – three hours ago – they told him visiting hours were over for the day (and he'd been here since before they'd begun, for he'd brought his brother in late the night before) that they'd allowed him to stay. One nurse who'd had a sister of her own, once, gave him coffee and offered to get him a pillow and blankets. Sam had politely declined; he did not want to tempt sleep – never again.

It was a futile desire, wanting to never sleep again – he knew. Sam might have been able to keep it up for a few days, if he kept himself occupied, but he knew how stealthy sleep could be, sneaking up on him unawares and pouncing, dragging him under with claws made of nightmares. He might get some rest – an hour, maybe, if he were lucky. Then, he'd dream.

Sam always dreamed. Every night. He had as far back as he could remember, though he couldn't always recall the dreams themselves. But he'd long had a propensity for strange dreams, rarely seeing much cheerful or pleasant at night. And when something ate at him in waking, it tore ravenously at him in sleeping. Prophetic dreams were worse, though, pulling him from restful sleep with an incessant nagging he could not ignore; any time he tried, he thought of Jessica and knew better. He could never ignore such dreams again.

But as unpleasant as the visions were to endure, in some ways Sam preferred them to the straight up nightmares. The visions, at least, gave him a purpose – a direction. Sometimes, something could be done to try to resolve them, too. But nightmares? There was no resolving those, and there was no way to stop them. And nightmares served no purpose, save to rehash Sam's guilt and fears for his conscience's self-torment.

When he had been little, he had curled up next to Dean, taking comfort in the warm presence of the one he loved best, and hell, even in college, when he and Jessica had begun sleeping in the same bed, he had snuggled close to her to ward off the chill – not of the night, but of the dreams. But that had only ever done so much. Mostly, such things had only ever helped him fall back asleep after waking up in a cold sweat, relaxed him enough to slip once more into slumber. Neither of those options were available to him, now, and besides, he preferred to avoid the nightmares if at all possible to begin with.

Still, some part of Sam wanted nothing more than someplace soft to lay his head; he was so very tired. But, even if the potential dreams weren't enough to dissuade him, the idea of being asleep when Dean awoke was just as galling. Sam knew that Dean would be furious with him – probably hate him, maybe even disown him – when he woke up, and although Sam didn't relish being shouted at when Dean first awoke, he knew he deserved the verbal beat down, this time. More than deserved it. Some twisted part of him looked forward to it as a way to, perhaps, begin to make up for everything that had gone wrong.

More than anything, though, Sam wanted to be there when Dean woke up just to hear his brother's voice – to know that he was alive and Sam was not alone.

"Do you want some coffee, hon?"

Sam nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden intrusion of a woman's voice into his thoughts. He spun about – heart pounding – to face the nurse, a comfortably proportioned, middle aged woman who smiled at him kindly. Running a hand through his hair as he fought to bring his pulse back under control, Sam flashed her a pathetic excuse for a smile and nodded.

"I'll go get you a cup, then. Sugar or cream?"

"Cream, please. Th-thank you."

"Don't mention it, sweetie."

She disappeared briefly then returned bearing a Styrofoam cup. Gesturing to the two chairs in the room, she handed him his coffee and then reached for Dean's chart.

"Sit down while you drink that, hon. Wouldn't want you to spill it."

Sam hesitated, but at the expectant, stern look the nurse fixed him with, he refrained from protesting and folded into one of the seats, leaning back as he sipped his drink. Satisfied, the nurse turned her full attention to Dean, checking his monitors, I.V. and dressings.

After a while, Sam broke the silence. "How is he doing?"

"I'd think you'd know better than I, since you've yet to leave his side," she replied, smiling faintly. "But he seems to be doing all right, considering his injuries."

Nodding, Sam turned his eyes to the floor. "When do you think he'll wake up?"

The nurse paused, tilting her head as she gave the question some thought. "Hmm… I don't know for certain. He lost a lot of blood, and he was under heavy anesthesia for the surgery, so it most likely won't be tonight. But any more than that, I wouldn't know."

Sam nodded and said nothing. The nurse made a final note on Dean's chart and replaced it in its holder; however, she didn't immediately leave, instead watching Sam, as he scooted his chair closer to Dean's bed. Biting her lip, the nurse paused for a moment before padding over to place a hand on Sam's shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze.

"Chin up, sweetie. I'm sure he'll recover. He's lucky to have someone who cares as much as you do – that'll be good for him when he wakes up. Patients who've got someone there to help them usually do better."

Although she beamed down at him, Sam did not look up at her, uttering only a noncommittal grunt in response and taking the final sip of his coffee before crushing the cup in his fist. What was there to say to that? The nurse lingered a few moments longer, but with no further response forthcoming, she sighed and left Sam to his unhappy brooding.

.

A/N:

1: Eyes are indeed subject to the laws of gravity, when the muscles that hold them in position go lax. Failure to account for this – whether for dramatic effect or out of sheer ignorance – is quite possibly the one medical inaccuracy that comes up most frequently and bothers me most.

Regarding the lack of a semi-truck creaming them: I talked over this with VT a while ago, and we decided two things. First, with John dead, if the truck crashed, it would ultimately result in Dean also dead. This would then result in a story about Sam falling to pieces, and while I do have a very clear idea of where that story would go and how it would influence, say, the YED's plans and so forth, there are many other stories out there already that deal with one or other of the boys trying (and failing) to properly soldier on without the other. Hell, the show itself goes into this, too. Moreover, I wasn't so sure I want to write quite that dark of a story at this time. Second, it seemed to us that the truck crash's primary purpose was to take a swipe at getting the Colt. Its secondary purpose was to further render the Winchesters out of commission. The secondary purpose is well enough achieved by killing off John and hospitalizing Dean. The primary purpose, meanwhile, is moot, because the Colt is lacking in bullets and is currently back at the cabin. (What happens to it, you will find out in the next chapter.) Now, with that reasoning, perhaps you can see why there was no need to have a demon possess a truck driver and – in a fit of irony – smash into them whilest Bad Moon Rising is playing on the radio.

Also, from the lack of extra injuries given to Dean from being tossed about in a car wreck, I think you can gather that he will remain alive. Just… out of commission for a while. ;)

So… I'm sure that answers a few questions, though if you have any more, please feel free to ask. :)

I know exactly where I'm going in chapter 3 – I just have to be in the proper mood to sit down and write it when I have time. I just haven't and won't have the time for it for a while; moving back to school is full of business.

Any and all feedback is most appreciated!

Thanks for reading!

- Snarky