"Teenage male, extreme fever, weak pulse. Suffering from exposure, looks like he was out there all night."

Details were shouted over the gurney that raced to the ER. John watched them rush the pale, unconscious form down the hall before him, feeling a numbness spread through him at every word, every vital that was either off the charts or so low they barely registered.

"Please sir, wait here." He hadn't realized he'd pushed the door open to the room, and someone guided him back out just as they began cutting away Dean's clothes.

"How bad it is?"

"Just let them work."

He stood there the whole time. Three hours. Three hours he didn't move from the spot, getting glimpses of needles, monitors, blankets and ice every time the door swung open. He saw masks and gloves and white. He saw Dean's face covered with a breathing mask, arm riddled with tubes.

"John." A hand came down on his shoulder. He didn't turn.

"I screwed up, Bobby."

"We all do." The other hunter reassured.

"No, I mean I really screwed up this time."

"Come on, let's talk about it over a coffee."

But John shook his head. "I can't. I have to wait to hear what they say. Can you go sit with Sammy?"

"Of course, whatever you need, that's why I came."

Bobby headed up to the next floor.

John still didn't move.

"Uncle Bobby!"

"Well you're peppier than I expected." Bobby leaned down to pat the boy on the head. "Good to see you so lively, Sam."

"Tell me what's going on! The doctor said they found Dean but no one will tell me how he is?"

"He's fine, just fine, the doctors are getting him fixed up now."

"Dad went down hours ago. Why didn't he come back?"

"He just wants to sit with Dean."

"You're lying!"

"Sam, you've gotta concentrate on yourself for once. You got pretty sick from what I heard. You need to take it easy, okay?"

"Not until someone gives me some answers."

"There are no answers to give right now. The doctors and your father are with your brother. He's getting the care he needs right now so the best thing you can do for him is to take care of yourself, alright?"

Sam sunk back, not completely satisfied but tired enough to accept it for now.

"Good, now go to sleep, I'll be here when you wake up."

Sam lay back but his face turned to a frown. "That's what Dean said."

"Shhh." Bobby smoothed out his hair. "Go on now, sleep tight."

Sam shut his eyes. Bobby sat back with a long sigh. "Damn."

"Where am I?" Dean brushed a hand through his hair and sat in the bed. He looked around at the walls, they were dark but familiar. Then he stiffened and pulled back the sheets. "Wait..."

He noted the little angel propped on the shelf by his bed. On the nightstand was their last family photo, baby Sammy just a bundle of blankets in John's arms.

"I'm home," he whispered to the dark, leaving the bed and creeping down the hall. He saw the cradle from here, nightlights illuminating the nursery. He stepped carefully on the carpet, crossing the threshold and grabbing the side of the crib to look in. He was so perfect, so quiet even though he was awake. A tiny hand reached up toward Dean. He wiggled in his blankets and made a noise.

"Hey baby bro," Dean whispered. "I guess I'm dreaming then." He let the baby grab his finger and smiled. "I wish we could stay, Sammy. I wish this place was our future."

He left the baby version of his brother and passed his parents' bedroom. He stood for a long time watching the single form on the bed, sleeping softly. He wanted to call out to her, but he was afraid the dream would shatter and he'd lose this chance just to see her alive again.

"I miss you Mom," he whispered. He stood a while longer before following the flickering light to the t.v. downstairs. John was there, head drooped in sleep, a beer can in hand. Dean sat on the stairs without going over to his father. He leaned his head on the rails and watched younger, softer features in their sleep. John had never escaped the soldier's life, not even here. He'd had trouble sleeping—Dean remembered it, stumbling down to the washroom at night and seeing his father here like this. His mom had once spoken of it to a friend and Dean had overheard. But in the day time, John Winchester showed no signs that war still haunted him. He would lift Dean high and put him on his shoulders. He would whisper softly to Sammy as he held him in his arms.

"I miss you too," Dean said suddenly. "I miss who you were before everything. And Sam will never know that man. You'll always be the soldier, our commanding officer. He never got to see you smile like you did back then. It's not fair. It's not fair that you've done this to us."

He sighed long and covered his face with his hands. But then he heard the scream, and suddenly everyone was awake. His father raced past him, screaming his mother's name. Dean ran up the stairs in his wake, just in time to see the flames, to see her eyes. It was the single image Dean had fallen asleep and woken to for the last thirteen years. It was the nightmare he'd lived over and over.

John pressed the baby into his arms, even as his eyes were still fixed on her, his mother, his angel, bleeding, burning and screaming.

"GO DEAN! NOW!"
He was running. He was four years old and seventeen all at once. He held Sam close to his chest. He didn't cry. He never did. That whole night he sat on the hood of the Impala, holding Sam until his father took him and sobbed while holding him—Dean never cried. And after that night, their father never cried again either.

So why was he crying now? He was staring at himself in a broken mirror, seeing a handprint on his face, and tear sliding over his cheeks.

"I want to wake up," he whispered to his reflection. "I don't want these memories anymore."

But he couldn't. He couldn't escape the tide of pain filled memories, her death cycling over and over in his mind. No matter what he tried, he couldn't wake up.

"Why isn't he waking up?" John had asked the doctors several times, but their answers never seemed to satisfy. Fever, sickness, none of their explanations were good enough. "Come on Dean, snap out of it."

Dean had not snapped out of it in those first few hours, nor in the following day. It had now been over thirty hours. If he didn't wake up soon, the doctors said there was a risk of him slipping into a coma.

"DEAN!"

"Sir." A nurse put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Yelling at him won't help."

Yelling at him is what had put him here in the first place. John relented and eased away from the bed. He returned upstairs to his other son, asleep, Bobby drowsing next to him in a chair with a crossword in his lap. But he started awake at John's entrance. They had barely spoken. Now John dragged a chair over and sat heavily before him.

"Bobby thank you for being here."

"Of course." Bobby straightened and shut his book. "But you still haven't told me how all of this came about."

John relayed the incident. Bobby reserved comment but nodded in understanding.

"So he ran off and passed out in that rainstorm."
"Yeah."

"He's a tough nut, he'll be fine."

"Don't Bobby. This is my fault and now Dean might die because of it."

"Keep your damn voice down, Sam doesn't need to hear that from you. I spent all day convincing him Dean's gonna be fine."

"But we don't know that."

"Yes we do." Bobby leaned forward and looked straight into those pained eyes. "Because we know Dean, and we know he's a hell of a fighter. This ain't gonna bring him down, but I'm starting to think it might you."

John stared at him for a moment and then leaned back and covered his face with his hand, letting out a long breath. "Yeah okay. Dean will pull through."

"Damn straight he will. Now you go to sleep before they admit you too, you look like Hell."

"Please stop," Dean whispered into his hands.

The fire burned all around him. Sammy wailed in his crib. His father screamed. His mother cried. And so did he. He sobbed into his hands, begging the dream world to let him go, desperate for the nightmare to end.

He'd left, he'd escaped to other memories, all frightening. All dark and terror filled. All full of pain and loneliness. And all of them led back here in the end. He didn't have the will to fight anymore. He didn't have the strength to lift his head from his hands and play his part over and over again. So it all burned down around him, until it started up anew, a never ending cycle.

"Please...someone help me."

"Please, Dean, don't do this to me." John held cold fingers between both hands, squeezing tight as if in their proximity he could breathe some life into his son. The doctors had warned him he'd grown less stable, that his vitals were up and down and this could mean he was waking, or he was about to slip farther away from them.

"Dean, listen to me." He leaned in close, lifting a hand to the bruise he'd laid in his flesh. He brushed his hair flat and just held his head. "I'm sorry. I get lost some times, and you know that better than anyone. But you've always been there for me. You always bring me back when I stray too far. You remind me what's good, what's important, you always have. So please come back. I need you, boy, and so does Sammy."

Please Dean.

"Dad?" Dean looked up from his hands, from the burning all around him. The roar of flames blocked out most other sounds but he heard it again, penetrating the wall of heat and pain around him.

"Please come back to us."

"DAD!"

"D-Dean?"

Dean stood, but the flames were all around him. He screamed out, screamed to be heard over their roar, over their high reaching tongues—over the screams of his mother on the ceiling.

"Dad please help me! She's dying, over and over. It won't stop! Please make it stop!"

"DEAN!"
A crash of waves. A hand among the flames. A voice in the dark.

"Dad..." his eyes parted and he saw the white ceiling, no smoke, no flames, no mother burning above his brother's cradle. "It wouldn't stop," he croaked, reality still not quite clear, his whole body felt weighed down and slow but he realized his hand had come up to grip his father's shirt, and his father's was wrapped back just as tight around his shoulder.

"It's okay, Dean." John hoisted him up against him. Dean's face sank into his shoulder. He didn't let go. He felt a tickle on his cheek and realized it was tears. "I've got you son. It's over now, you're awake, you came back."

"I'm sorry." The words came out automatic, Dean wasn't even sure what he was sorry for. Everything, the monster attacking Sam, the fight, being stupid enough to wander off when he was sick. But he felt John shake his head.

"Don't. It was me who messed up."

"Sam...how's Sam?"

"He's fine, just fine, I promise."

"Good."

Dean shut his eyes. John held him tight for a long time. Then the doctors came and checked him over, ran tests and gave them the low down. Dean would still have to be hospitalized for a few days, but the fever was broken, he was on his way to recovery. He lay awake for a long time in the dark of the room, not anxious to return to his dreams. He stared at the ceiling, seeing her even with his waking eyes. John came in, after having said good night to Sammy in his room. He saw where Dean's eyes rested.

"You called out in your sleep," he whispered even though it was just the two of them in the room. "You said it wouldn't stop—she wouldn't stop dying."

"Yeah," Dean's voice was shaky.

"I didn't think you'd gotten close enough to see…to see Mary." They had never in all these years spoken of it. It was Dean who'd told Sam just what happened. "I always wondered how much of that night you remembered."

"Everything," Dean said. "From the look on her face, to the smell of-" he stopped himself, unable to bring himself to say it aloud. "And after, sitting on the hood of the car, watching our house burn down. Feeling Sammy wriggling in his blankets. And your face." Dean took a long breath. "I'll never forget how you looked that night, because you looked like how I felt. Sick and angry, sad and scared."

John shook his head, "yeah that just about sums it up." His voice was so low. He reached out a hand in the dark and held Dean's face.

"You were brave even then. You protected Sammy that night, just like you always do now. I know you'd never do anything to put him in harm's way. Dean you keep this family together, you know that right? Sammy and me, we couldn't get through without you. I just wanted you to know that."

"Thanks, Dad."

"Now try to get some sleep. I'll be here, if you need me."

"Okay." Dean didn't want to go back to the nightmare, but he shut his eyes because he knew he wasn't alone this time, he knew his father would be there, waiting to save him if he needed it. So he put his trust in him again, and let his exhausted body drift.

Next time: The Winchesters take a trip North of Boarder to meet an old friend of John's. Things quickly get complicated and Sam and Dean find themselves their father's only hope of survival.

Thanks for reading and reviewing,

Riza.