January 24

Chapter 3

The hall had been more than quiet though it was not too late at night yet. But then the restless silence was jarred by an annoying noise that was his ring tone. John threw a glance at the open door to the room where Dean was resting after an operation that lasted almost an hour. The red gashes running down his back looked so awful the surgeon eyed John with unspoken accusation afterwards. But there was nothing else the older Winchester could say except that Dean had been attacked by a wild dog. And that was that. The doctor could not say that it was John's hands that had been hacking into Dean's flesh, couldn't he?

His phone buzzed again. Oh right. John flicked his cell open and frowned at the caller's ID.

Sam?

It was not such a small treat, coaxing himself to call up his dad. He must have gone insane trying to do that. After what his old man told him before he left for Stanford? But Sam needed to know about Dean. To make sure that his older brother was all right. Because—he hated to think about this but—he wasn't sure his father would contact him although Dean was injured. He'd been ignoring them for too long his dad might not want to accept yet another disrespect coming from his youngest son.

But what if Dean could not make it? Would his dad still keep Sam in the dark? Sam could not believe he would. Besides, that was not what he was seeing. And the most important thing, he could also still feel Dean's vibe. All he had to find out now was that how much Dean had been hurt, and whether he would subsist.

"Dad?"

"Sam, is that you?" Incredulity was in his father's voice. Sam could not blame him for that. He had no time to think about it, though. The problem now was: what would he say?

Sam couldn't tell him about his vision, for sure. He had never told anyone about it and his father might be the last person that was supposed to know.

"Sam, it's really you, isn't it?"

Sam grunted his reply, scrunching his brow, and grappled his cell with both his hands. He was still curling up on the floor in the corner of the restroom.

"Yeah, uh, Dad?"

"Where are you, son? Are you okay? What's happened to you?"

"I'm… I'm okay, dad." Sam was more or less taken aback by the concern in his dad's voice. He still thought the older man was as mad at him as he was at the night when he left. "I-is Dean there?" Sam wouldn't tell him how he had tried and tried contacting his brother's mobile and failed.

This time it was his father who faltered.

"Uh, well. Dean is… out. Ah, yes. He's out for a moment. What's up, Sam?"

So… Dean was out. Sam was digesting this piece of information and asking himself if he could trust his dad on this. After all, Sam had been the one making the call. He deserved the truth if nothing else.

"Oh, ah, nothing, Dad. Nothing. I just…"

"Yes, Sam?"

"I just – want to wish him happy birthday."

There. Not an outright lie, yet not the complete truth either coming from him. But Sam could not come up with a better excuse. And not half a second later he hung up.

Happy Birthday

What date was it today? January… 24?

John threw his head back, not even feeling it when it slammed into the wall behind him. He had this sudden urge to hurl his cell phone to the door, the ceiling, the milky white light above him.

Today was Dean's birthday, and did he remember that? No. Instead, he brought the boy to one of the most dangerous hunts they had ever had and almost got him killed. What kind of a father was he?

John buried his face in his hands, sniffling before realizing that he was crying. He rubbed his eyes with a hand, and turned his gaze toward Dean's room. He wasn't even beside his unconscious son. What was wrong with him? Was it guilt that hindered him from doing it?

Suddenly John's phone rang again. He knew it was Sam again even before picking it up.

"Dad."

So John was right.

"In what hospital are you?"