so, another chappy...thanks for reading and for all the awesome reviews!! they really mean the world to me!! bambers;)

Chapter Thirty-One

"Can't go in there yet," Bobby uttered as John rushed toward Sam's hospital room. "The doctor's running some tests." Taking off his baseball cap, the older hunter raked his fingers through his hair, and then replaced the hat on his head, drawing the brim down low over his brow. "Guess cause of the drugs, his heart rate is freakin' screwed all to hell." He hesitated for a moment, lowering his head so John couldn't look him in the eye. "They think he might've suffered a mild heart attack."

"A heart attack?" John stared dumbfounded at his friend. "He's only twenty-two freakin' years old."

"I know," Bobby heaved a weary sigh, scrubbing his hand across his eyes, "but because of all the trauma he suffered, combined with the drugs, they said that it wasn't completely unexpected."

"When can I see him?" John cracked open the door to Sam's room, and whatever he'd thought to expect when he arrived at the hospital flew right out the window when he saw his youngest son writhing uncontrollably in his hospital bed. Every movement Sam made, no matter how slight, elicited horrible cries of pain to rip from his lips. Sam's hospital gown and hair were literally soaked with sweat, his face was flushed, making it appear as if he had a raging fever as his arms and legs twitched and jerked of their own accord. Another cry of pain issued past Sam's lips as he curled over to his side, clutched a hold of his stomach and began to retch violently.

"They should be done soon."

John's breath caught in his throat, tears burning at his eyes, and he was forced to look away. He'd never actually witnessed anyone going through withdrawal before, and never thought he'd live to see the day that one of his own sons was so out of control of their own body.

"Can't they do anything for him, Bobby?" John finally managed to utter as he closed the door to the room, his voice thick and strained with emotion.

Bobby, who's features were just as stricken as John knew his to be, turned to John and placed a reassuring hand on John's shoulder. "They were waiting for you to get here. Said they need ya to sign some papers saying that they can administer methadone to Sam to help ease some of his pain while he's detoxing."

"Methadone?" John quirked a brow as he turned a questioning eye to his long time friend. "Thought they said they couldn't give him anything for the pain, an' now you're tellin' me they wanna give my boy another drug?"

Scrubbing a hand across his beard, the older hunter looked to John, and then gave a subtle shrug. "From what the doctors say, it could be fatal if Sam comes down from heroin withdrawal on his own. So they need to taper him off of it with methadone."

"An' how long will it take?" John asked, knowing he had no choice in the matter.

"About five to seven days."

"An' do they think he's . . . ." John's voice trailed off as he recalled how the doctors had mentioned his son's first stay at the hospital. A single tear slipped down his cheek as he remembered the doctors telling him how Sam had surgery for internal injuries and then his spleen had ruptured, and had to be removed by emergency surgery. "Is he strong enough to survive this?"

Bobby was silent for a moment, which left little doubt in John's mind that his friend wasn't certain that Sam would be able to overcome what Dominic had done to him. With a heavy sigh, he finally uttered, "He's your son, John. One of the strongest people I know, an' if anyone can pull through this kinda thing, it's Sam."

"An' what about Dean?"

Again, Bobby was silent for a moment, and John could tell he was weighing his words very carefully. "Think he pretty damn messed up at the moment. But in truth, I don't think it's all Dominic's fault, think some of that blame has to fall at yer feet."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" John's voice rose in anger, and as he glanced around and noticed people starting to stare in their direction, he quickly lowered his voice. "I'm not to blame for what that madman did to my boys. Yeah, sure, I didn't come right away when Sam called, but I was only tryin' to protect them."

"Not talkin' about that, John," Bobby clenched his fists, his own anger ignited as he glared at John. "Know you've done yer damnedest to protect those boys. But to you, they've always been soldiers first, and sons second. The way I figure it is, Dominic had to have some sort of way in . . . somethin' that was eatin' Dean up inside . . . somethin' he could play upon, manipulate to his advantage."

"Men like Dominic don't need an in," John argued, jabbing Bobby in the chest with his index finger. "They torture someone relentlessly until that person breaks, starve their victims, deprive them of sleep, an any other despicable act they can think of to torture them . . . an' no matter what you say, none of that is my fault."

Bobby pushed John's hand away, not about to back down from his standpoint on the matter. "Maybe so, John, but Dominic's not the one who made Dean think he was good for nothing more than being a good little soldier and watching over Sam. You did that," he took a step closer to John, looking him squarely in the eyes, "you did. An' now it's yer job to fix it, cause all the damn deprogramming in the world isn't gonna freakin' change the fact that, that boy was broken inside way before Dominic ever laid eyes on him."

"Did what I thought was right for my boys," John adamantly defended how he'd raised his two sons. Of course, he knew their lives were anything but perfect and normal, but at least he hadn't chosen to let them go out blindly into the world, not telling them of the things that stalked and killed their prey in the night. No, he had made sure his sons could defend themselves from any evil creature that might be lurking just out of sight. But as he looked toward his son's room once more, knowing Sam was lying helpless in the hospital bed as nurses and doctors hovered over him, he painfully realized that he had failed them miserably as a father.

"No, you did what was right for you," Bobby hollered, confirming John's own thoughts. "You were so damn hellbent on killin' ol' Yellow-Eyes, that somewhere along the lines ya lost track of the fact that they needed you, just as much as you need them."

"Just freakin' back off, Bobby, they aren't your boys, an' I'm not gonna stand here any longer, listenin' to you tell me what a freakin' crappy job I've done raising them."

"You're right, they're not my boys, but just cause they ain't my blood, doesn't mean I don't give a damn what happens to them . . . an' sometimes I begin to wonder if I care about them a whole helluva lot more than you do."

Something inside John snapped, his scarcely controlled anger turning to blind rage, and he grabbed hold of Bobby and slammed him against the wall. "You aren't their damn father, Bobby, an' no matter how freakin' much you hate the idea that I am, it's not gonna change things." Balling his hand into a fist, he made to smash it into Bobby's face, but the older hunter caught his hand mid-strike.

"Hit me if ya think it's gonna make you feel better, but ya know damn well, if what I was sayin' wasn't the truth, you wouldn't be so damn pissed off."

"Gentlemen," came a stern female voice from behind John, and he swung to look at a nurse who had just exited Sam's room. "If you can't keep your voices down, I'm going to have to ask you to leave the hospital immediately."

"How's my son?" John asked, disregarding what the nurse had just said, "wanna see my boy now."

"He's doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances, Mr Wilkinson." She glanced down at Sam's chart, flipped through the pages, and then looked back up at John. "Since Sam is unable to consent to the administration of methadone, we need your permission to start him on the drug." The nurse handed John the clipboard, and showed him where he should sign. Not having any other choice in the matter, John quickly scrawled his name on the page. "It usually takes about five to seven days to wean him off the methadone while he is detoxing, and it should lessen some of his symptoms of withdrawal."

"An' what happens after that?" John asked as he felt Bobby rest a hand on his shoulder.

"If all goes well, a drug treatment program, an' we start intensive psychological therapy." The nurse paused for a moment, and gave John a reassuring smile, allowing him the time to digest what she had just said. "Your son has been through a very traumatic ordeal, and from what we have witnessed so far, he is suffering from post-traumatic stress. He's hasn't been sleeping, eating or talking since he was admitted to the hospital yesterday."

"How long will all that take?" John muttered as he stared at the form he'd just signed, the page blurring as tears flooded his eyes.

"Sir, there's really no way to tell how long it will take. Could be months, could be years. We just have to take it one day at a time."

John looked up at the nurse, his eyes narrowing on her as the impact of her words struck him full force. "Your saying it could take years for my boy to recover from this?" Even as he said this, John couldn't believe his son might not recover for a long time to come.

"All I'm saying is that we can't put a time frame on his recovery." She held out her hand and took the clipboard back from John. "It's very important that he has a strong supportive network of family and friends around while he recovers." She nudged her head toward the door. "You can go in and see him in a few minutes, after we administer the methadone." With that said, she turned on her heel, and walked back inside Sam's room.

"Bobby, I need you to go back an' help Deacon with Dean," John mumbled without turning to face his friend. "Sam needs him . . . they need each other."

"Alright, John," Bobby replied without hesitation, and with head hung low, he headed toward the elevator.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

After the doctor and nurses left Sam's room, John stood at the doorway afraid to move any further into his son's hospital room. Although they had changed Sam's bedclothes and sheets, he was still sweating profusely, and even after giving him the methadone, he was still twitching and jerking spasmodically. The only thing that seemed to lessen with the drug was the cries of pain that John had heard earlier, and that did little to alleviate the growing pain burning a way a hole in John's heart.

Slowly, John crossed the expanse, and took a seat beside Sam. He reached out to touch his son's arm, hesitated and pulled back. Lowering his head, he rested his chin against clasped hands as he watched Sam intently. With hazel eyes glazed over in pain, it didn't appear as if Sam knew he was even there.

"Sam," he began, not really knowing what to say, but knew his son needed him, so said the first thing that came to mind. "I should've came when you called . . . if I had, none of this would've happened to you. You and your brother needed me, an' I wasn't there . . . have never been there when you needed me most."

He looked to Sam again, hoping to see some sign that his son had heard or understood what he'd just said, but a blank stare was all he saw instead. "Your brother's in really bad shape, but you know Dean, even if he was damn near death, he'd never let you know it." A wry laugh caught on John's lips as he wiped away the tears slipping down his cheeks. "An' truthfully, I'm terrified as all hell to see what that monster did to him, but I'm thinkin' it had to be pretty damn bad to mess up his mind like it did."

A small cry of pain escaped Sam's cracked and bruised lips as he continued to jerk around in bed, but other then that he still remained deathly quiet. John finally gave in to his need to comfort not only Sam but himself as well, and reached out and touched his son's arm. Feeling Sam's trembled beneath his fingertips was almost John's undoing, and he had to look away as more tears cascaded down his cheeks.

With every ounce of sheer willpower he possessed, John swallowed down his own pain, and refocused his attention on his son. "The thing is, I don't know how to reach him, Sam . . . he's so damn angry," another half-laugh, half-cry issued from John's mouth as he gently squeezed Sam's arm, "I'm used to arguing with you . . . hell, that's never been a problem for us. But with Dean . . . well, he's always been . . . he's always done whatever I've asked without question." John drew his hand away and slammed his fist down hard against his thigh, hating himself at the moment for being exactly what Bobby had said he was. "An' I know damn well, he's the only one who can help you through this . . . but who's gonna help him?"

John looked to his son once more, praying for all he was worth, that he would see some sign of recognition in his son's eyes, but the same vacant stare met his steady gaze. "Damn it, Sammy, what the hell did that freakin' monster do to you. You have to come out of this . . . you just have to. You an' Dean are the only ones I've got left . . . everything I've ever done . . . every damn thing, was for you an' your brother. Jus' wanted you to be safe . . . never meant for this to happen to you. An' I'm sorry . . . so damn sorry. God, please jus' talk to me, give me some damn sign you're gonna be okay."

A sudden beeping noise coming from the heart monitor caught John's attention, and within a few moments, several nurses and doctors rushed into the room.

"What's wrong with him?" John shouted as he was pushed aside, and the doctors started checking Sam over. "Damn it, answer me! What the hell's wrong with my son?"

"Sir, you have to leave," the same nurse who had spoken to him earlier, grabbed hold of his arm, and tried to lead him to the door.

John jerked free from her grasp, and stood his ground, not about to leave his son alone again. "Not going anywhere till someone tells me what's happening to my son."

"I'm afraid your son's heart's stopped," the nurse finally replied, apparently realizing that John wasn't about to do as she asked. "Now I need you out of here, so they can work on him."

"His heart? No . . . he — he can't die . . . please, I'm beggin' you, don't let him die on me now." John slowly backed away, and butting up against the wall, he slid down onto the floor, and watched helplessly as the doctors struggled to revive his son.