"Sam!"
"Sir, you have to stay back!" Ashley yelled, struggling to keep John Winchester behind her and in the hall where he belonged.
"The hell I will!" John growled, shoving Ashley out of his way, broad hand splayed across her chest as he pushed her against the wall of his son's room.
Dean turned at the sound of his father's voice. "Dad!"
"Dean!"
Karen turned as well. "Ashley!"
"Karen!"
"Ashley, where the hell have you been? Call code! He's in v-fib!"
"What happened?" Ashley responded in shock, staring at their unconscious patient, vaguely aware of the other two men entering the room.
"I don't know," Karen snapped, as she pulled the CPR release lever on Sam's bed. "Just call code!" she ordered, removing the oxygen mask.
Ashley turned back into the hall, snatching the phone from the nurses' station.
Karen reached for the CPR board to slide under Sam on the bed. But John beat her to it, snatching it from her grasp even as Dean was already rolling Sam on his side, pulling his brother toward himself.
"What happened?" John demanded, his voice low as he slid the board beneath his youngest.
Dean watched as his father positioned the board on the mattress under his brother and then gently settled Sam on his back. "He was having chest pain."
John's eyes narrowed. "For how long?"
Dean remembered Sam's complaints about chest pain before he left the room – and he remembered Karen saying she would call him back in if Sam worsened. So, why hadn't she? If she had been paying attention to his brother, she would've surely noticed Sam's signs of distress. But she didn't. She didn't notice, and she didn't call Dean. Which would imply she wasn't paying attention.
"For how long?" John asked again, his tone impatient.
Dean glanced at Karen, already putting two and two together. "Too long."
Karen felt her heart beat faster at the expression on Dean's face and then startled when someone called her name. She turned, seeing another nurse rush into the room.
"Tina!" she shouted over the continuous blare of the monitors. "Where's Ashley?"
Tina gestured vaguely over her shoulder. "In the hall."
Karen could feel herself losing it. "Alright...fine...um..." She needed to focus. "Get an Ambu bag, and I'll start chest compressions. We need to begin CPR."
"Already in progress," Dean responded, his hands laced together – one on top of the other – and positioned over Sam's chest.
"No, wait – " Tina began, but was unceremoniously pushed to the side by John.
Tina made a motion to stop him, but Karen waved her off. Did the woman have a death wish? "It's okay. Push a milligram of Epi into his IV line."
John tilted Sam's head back, large hand almost completely covering Sam's face as he plugged the kid's nose and blew two breaths into his son's mouth.
"What can we do?" Bobby asked as he and Jim stood on either side of the door.
"The milligram of Epi is in," Tina reported.
"Move those chairs and that table out of the way for the crash cart," Karen instructed the men, pointing at the furniture and then leaned into the hall. "Ashley!"
"They're coming!" Ashley assured, hoping the code team's usual five-minute response time would be enough.
"Page Dr. Collins," Karen replied, ducking back into her patient's room and fighting the urge to sob as she watched Sam's father and brother perform CPR.
She knew it was against protocol for the patient's family to assist in life-saving measures for fear they were untrained and would cause more harm than good, but she also knew this was no ordinary family. These men knew what they were doing, as evidenced by their silent synchronicity.
"C'mon, Sam..." Dean urged, consciously keeping his compressions light – not wanting to crack or break his brother's ribs – even as his own heart hammered inside his chest from this, the most horrifying experience of his life.
One minute Sam was breathing, and the next...he wasn't.
Sam had smiled weakly as Dean had approached the bed, had laced his fingers with his big brother's, and then just like that – Sam was gone.
Dean had watched as pain and panic flashed across his brother's face as Sam struggled to breathe, even with the oxygen mask, and then...nothing.
Sam's face had changed in that vague but unquestionable way that happens when life is no longer present, and Dean knew without a doubt that his own heart had stuttered to a stop as well.
But Sam was sadly mistaken if he thought he was leaving Dean. They had already discussed this once, and the conclusion was the same now as it had been a few hours ago: No. Fucking. Way.
"Don't do this, Sammy..." John quietly begged from the opposite side of the bed, as he mentally counted along with Dean.
Dean glanced up at his father, surprised by the raw desperation, the obvious love in those few words. John Winchester didn't let his guard down for anybody, and yet there he stood, startlingly vulnerable as he begged his youngest to hold on.
John returned his oldest son's gaze, saddened by Dean's surprised expression. Was it really so shocking that he cared what happened to his sons? That he loved them? Sure, he rarely told them – couldn't even remember the last time he had actually spoken the words – but they were all guys. They didn't say such things, especially not to each other.
Besides, actions spoke louder than words, and John had shown them numerous times how much he loved them...hadn't he?
John blew two more breaths into Sam's mouth and was reminded of Dean's question when he first arrived – why he always picked the hunt over his sons.
It was a good question – probably something that should've been asked a long time ago.
He glanced at Dean as his oldest continued compressions.
Too bad he didn't have a good answer.
John blew two more breaths and glanced at the monitors. It had been almost two minutes, and Sam showed no signs of reviving – and that was unacceptable.
"Sammy..." he whispered, lowering his face closer to his son's. "C'mon, kiddo."
Dean glanced at his father again, touched and yet angered. Is this what it took for the mighty John Winchester to share his feelings, to make the right choice – for one of his sons to practically die?
Dean shook his head as he continued compressions. That was unacceptable – and worse...it might be too late.
John felt Dean's stare as he blew two more breaths.
Dean did more compressions.
From the far side of the room, Bobby stared meaningfully at Jim, his jaw clenched tight, and the Pastor nodded in understanding.
Please, Jim silently prayed.
John blew two more breaths.
I know they don't talk to You...
Dean did more compressions.
...because they don't think You listen...
John blew two more breaths.
...but please don't take him from them...
Dean did more compressions.
...from us.
John blew two more breaths.
Amen.
"Amen," Bobby murmured, his eyes focused on the Winchesters as Dean did more compressions.
And that's how it went for two more minutes.
Breaths...compressions...breaths...compressions...and still nothing.
"Where the hell is that code team?" Dean yelled.
"Their response time is no more than five minutes," Karen informed uselessly, scanning the monitors for any indication that Sam was reviving.
He wasn't.
Karen felt like sobbing. How many times had Sam pressed his hand to his chest? How many times had he stared at her, expressive eyes pleading for her to understand, to help him? How many times had her own intuition told her that there was a problem, that something wasn't right, that she should get Dean?
Karen watched as John blew two more breaths into his son's mouth and felt herself losing the battle, felt tears well in her eyes. If only she had paid closer attention to her patient, to her own instincts as a nurse. If only she hadn't allowed Sam's seemingly successful wean to lull her into a false sense of security, to make her drop her guard, to let her vigilance slide. If only she had not let Ashley distract her, let herself get caught up in the moment of gossip. Instead of talking about Dean, she should have been talking to him...about Sam. Dean would've known; hell, he had known. He was in the room less than a minute before he knew something was wrong – terribly, terribly wrong – with his little brother.
"I'm sorry..."
For a moment, Karen wondered who had said that and then realized she did – her guilty conscience seeking forgiveness without her permission. She held her breath, wondering if anyone had heard her over the monitors and hoping they hadn't. Sam's family had enough to deal with right now; confessions and apologies could be saved for later.
But then she saw it – Dean, staring straight at her – and she knew that he had not only heard her, he knew why she had said it.
"Sorry for what?" Dean snapped, glaring at her as he continued to compress his little brother's chest. "Ignoring him or not getting me sooner?"
Karen didn't respond, unnerved by his icy stare.
John narrowed his eyes and glanced over his shoulder. "You knew there was a problem?"
Karen remained speechless, thinking such a smooth, deep voice should be soothing, maybe even sexy...not pee-your-pants terrifying. Guess Dean wasn't the only one frighteningly protective of Sam.
Karen swallowed against her dry throat, but said nothing, her silence condemning her more than any verbal admission.
John shook his head, thinking he would be perfectly justified in slapping the shit out of her.
He blew two more breaths into Sam's mouth instead.
"You're lucky they're busy right now," Bobby commented.
And Karen knew he was right.
She was lucky. Damn lucky. Maybe even blessed.
She glanced at the Pastor. Had he said a prayer for her?
Jim stared back, his expression uncharacteristically hard.
Guess not.
Karen sighed. It didn't matter. The damage was done – both to Sam and to the working relationship she was building with Dean, the trust she was beginning to earn, not only from him but from the rest of his family.
Maybe later – when Sam was okay – she would try to make amends. Maybe later – when everyone had calmed down – they would realize she was truly sorry for what had happened on her watch. That is, if they didn't report her to Dr. Collins and have Sam removed from her care.
Karen sighed again.
Another minute of silence passed.
"Dean – "
"No," Dean responded immediately, not even looking at his father.
"Dean..." John tried again.
Dean glanced up, horrified to see the resolved desperation in his father's eyes. John looked like a drowning man reaching for a hand that wasn't there. Only it wasn't him that was drowning; it wasn't him that was slipping away, that was dying; it was Sam.
"No fucking way," Dean growled. "I'm not losing him."
"Dean, I'm not saying we stop. But I know you're getting tired. Let – "
"No!" Dean yelled, pushing John back and blowing two breaths into Sam's mouth himself before resuming compressions.
But his father was right; Dean was tired. His arms ached from exertion and trembled with exhaustion, but there was no way anyone else was taking over.
Sam was his.
His kid. His brother. His everything.
And he always fought for what was his.
Dean glared at John and blew two more breaths himself. "I am not giving up on Sam."
"Neither am I," John replied calmly, a little unnerved by the desperate intensity of his oldest. "But Dean, you – "
"Clear the room!" a man yelled, interrupting John and causing Dean to pause mid-compression as he, three women – all clad in dark green scrubs – and Ashley rushed into the room.
"Finally..." Karen sighed, relief flooding her, washing away her self-pity and doubt and filling her with determination. She may have screwed up – but she was still a damn good nurse and knew how to take care of her patient.
And Sam was still her patient.
"Clear the room!" the man repeated, attempting to maneuver the crash cart around all the people that crowded the small ICU room.
"Now!" Karen ordered, pushing John away as the cart was rolled closer to Sam's bed. "You too, Dean – go!"
"I'm not leaving him!" Dean yelled back. "Especially not with you!"
Karen felt the barb but shook it off. "I'll take care of him, Dean. I promise. But you have to leave."
Dean snorted, continuing to compress his brother's chest.
"Leave – all of you!" Tina shouted, herding Jim and Bobby toward the door, then straining against Dean as he stood immobile.
"Sam!"
"Still no pulse," Karen reported.
"Bag him," one of the code nurses instructed, passing an Ambu bag to Ashley and then nodding at Karen. "Continue chest compressions while we set up the defibrillator."
"You have to leave!" Tina yelled, continuing to push against Dean.
"No!" Dean shouted, jerking away from her touch. "I'm not leaving Sam!"
"Dean – "
"No!" Dean shouted again, glaring at his father as John seized his arm. "You always make me leave him, but not this time." He twisted from John's grasp and stepped toward his brother's bed. "Sam!"
"Damnit, Dean! Let them do their job," John growled, his tone harsh, his grip crushing on Dean's bicep as he grabbed his son again.
John followed behind Bobby and Jim, hauling his oldest out of the room, almost colliding with Dr. Collins as the physician rushed past them.
"Sam!" Dean yelled, snatching from his father's grasp as the door was closed in his face.
Dean stared at the door in silence before, in a fit of rage fueled by all-consuming fear and grief, he turned with startling speed and slammed John against the wall, pinning him there with his arm across his father's chest.
Jim moved to intervene, but Bobby caught his arm and his attention, slightly shaking his head. And although he didn't like it, the Pastor couldn't deny it – this was between them.
John's expression was unreadable, his movements eerily calm and controlled as he swept the arm from his chest and firmly shoved Dean back, eyes narrowing, daring his son to charge him again.
Dean arched his eyebrow in response, considering the challenge.
Harsh breathing and muffled sounds from within Sam's room filled the corridor as father and son squared off under the red light that continued to flash over Sam's door.
"You need to calm down," John warned, even as his own tone was harsh, even as he closed the gap between them, finger pointing in Dean's face, commanding obedience.
But Dean was having none of it. He glared at his father, roughly slapping his hand away and shoving John back, much like John had done to him seconds before.
John's impulse was to react with more of the same – authoritative aggression – but as he prepared to bark another order, he paused.
There.
Shining in Dean's green eyes.
Fear cleverly disguised as defiance.
And for the first time in a long time, John got it.
He wasn't dealing with a disobedient soldier that needed disciplining; he was dealing with a scared kid. His kid. His kid that was terrified of the same thing he was – losing Sam. His kid that reacted to fear and grief in the same way he did – with anger and aggression. His kid that had carried the load by himself for entirely too long, who needed a father, not a drill sergeant, to help bear the weight.
John sighed, feeling some of his own anger and tension slowly dissipate.
"You need to calm down," he repeated, but this time feeling calmer himself; this time keeping his deep voice quiet and steady, knowing it would ground his oldest, would calm Dean more than anything else.
Dean closed his eyes briefly. He didn't want to calm down. He wanted to punch and scream and rant at the unfairness of it all; of losing his mother too early and his childhood too soon; of being haunted by memories of hugs and kisses and laughter and of the man his father used to be but would never be again. It wasn't fair that he remembered; it wasn't fair that Sam couldn't. It wasn't fair that after everything he endured – after all the years of being a good son and a good soldier and a good whatever-else John needed him to be – Dean was still going to lose the one thing that had always made everything else bearable.
"I can't lose him," Dean whispered, horrified to hear the words pass his lips, to hear tears in his voice and to feel warm moisture slip unbidden through the lashes of his closed eyes.
Dean held his breath, refusing to let it hitch in further testimony of him crying like a girl in front his father, in front of fellow hunters. Sam did shit like this, not him.
Fuck.
Dean lowered his head, keeping his eyes closed, unable to look at John or the others as he waited to be chastised – physically or verbally or both – by his father.
But it didn't happen.
Instead of another rough shove or a harsh tone, Dean felt warm hands gently grip his shoulders, heard an equally gentle tone.
"We won't," his father's voice assured.
Dean paused.
That was...unexpected.
Dean slowly lifted his head and opened his eyes, hastily wiping away fresh tears as they threatened to glide down his cheeks.
John smiled, his expression sympathetic, not judgmental. Dean had carried the load too long by himself and that ended. Now.
"We won't lose him," he stated and shook his head for emphasis.
And just like when he was a kid, when his father could make everything right, could make it true just by saying it, Dean believed him.
Dean nodded, feeling the tears abate just as quickly as they had appeared, feeling some of the despair and anger and stress ease in his chest.
John held his son's gaze, returning the nod, and then roughly patted Dean's shoulder – affection only understood by men.
Dean wasn't sure what had just happened between them, was still pissed at his dad for so many things, was in no way letting John off the hook – but he felt strangely thankful and reassured, felt stronger and calmer...which was good because he had a little brother to see to.
He shook himself – moment of emotional crisis over...at least for now – and crossed to Sam's door, staring through the thin window. "C'mon, Sammy..."
"Charging to 64..." the man in green scrubs warned as Dr. Collins approached the head of the bed.
"Talk to me, Karen," Dr. Collins commanded as he stretched blue gloves over his hands.
"Increased chest pain, shortness of breath, blood on the ET tube and also present in his sputum. His sats dropped suddenly and – "
"All clear!" the man in green scrubs called out, waiting for everyone to back away before placing the paddles on either side of Sam's chest, his small body bucking as the shock ran through him.
"Continued v-fib," Tina reported.
"Continue chest compressions. Karen, push 150 milligrams of Amiodarone. Peter, charge to 128," Dr. Collins ordered.
"Do you want to intubate?" one of the code nurses asked.
"How's ventilation, Ashley?"
"I'm getting good chest rise."
"Sats are 90," Karen confirmed.
"Good," Dr. Collins responded. "Keep ventilating with the Ambu bag, and we'll hold off on intubation for now, especially since he was just extubated."
"One-fifty of Amiodarone is in," Karen said, removing the needle from the port and glancing at the door, seeing Dean and the others watching them through the thin window.
"All clear!" Peter yelled, shocking Sam again.
All eyes turned to the monitors.
"Still in v-fib," Tina said unnecessarily.
"Shit," Dr. Collins hissed.
Dean pounded on the door, his yell muffled by the barrier. "Sam!"
"Doctor..."
Dr. Collins glanced at the code nurse. "Continue CPR. Karen, one milligram of Epi. Peter, charge to 192."
"One milligram of Epi is in."
"Dr. Collins," Ashley called. "We have decreased ventilation."
"Sats have dropped to 75," Karen said.
"Damnit!" Dr. Collins spat.
"Prepare to reintubate?" Tina asked.
"Yes."
"All clear!"
Sam's body jerked at the shock – and then his heart started beating.
"Sinus tach," one of the code nurses stated.
"Better than v-fib..." Dr. Collins commented. "Karen..."
"I've got a pulse," Karen declared, smiling with relief and feeling the tension ease in the room as she gave a quick thumbs-up to those in the hall.
"That's my boy," John and Dean whispered together, both looking startled as they heard the other do so.
Dean gave a hint of a smile as his father winked at him, feeling relieved but knowing they weren't out of the woods yet.
"He is one feisty kid," Ashley commented, smiling over at Karen.
Karen smiled even wider. "Good boy, Sam," she praised, ruffling his hair as she traded positions with the doctor as he prepared to intubate again.
"What's his pressure?" Dr. Collins asked.
Karen glanced at the monitor. "Ninety systolic."
Dr. Collins nodded. "Hyperventilate him, Ashley."
Ashley nodded, doing as she was told and then also stepping aside.
Dr. Collins struggled with the laryngoscope.
Karen felt her smile falter.
"Give me some cricoid pressure," Dr. Collins barked.
Karen did so.
"Damnit..."
Karen swallowed, afraid to ask. "What?"
Dr. Collins narrowed his eyes. "There's too much edema in his throat."
Karen's heart dropped. "Trach?"
The doctor's brow furrowed in concentration as he shook his head. "No, not yet. Give me a minute..."
"O2 stats are dropping again," Ashley reported.
"Shit," Dr. Collins snapped, removing the laryngoscope and backing away as Ashley reapplied the Ambu bag. He sighed harshly. "Alright, we have no choice. Get me a trach kit."
Karen glanced at one of the code nurses, who grabbed the kit from the crash cart and then passed it to her.
John narrowed his eyes, watching the activity within his son's room. "What are they doing?"
Dean shook his head. He didn't know; but it certainly didn't look good.
At John's question, Jim and Bobby approached the door, not wanting to crowd previously, but unable to stand in the background any longer.
"Looks like they're gonna do a tracheotomy," Bobby reported, his words igniting realization in the others.
"You're right," Jim agreed.
"Shit."
Dean glanced at John, his father's hissed curse saying it all.
Dr. Collins hyperextended Sam's neck as Karen draped the area and wiped the skin with an alcohol swab. The doctor positioned his fingers on either side of his patient's neck, identifying the location of the cricoid cartilage and then nodded to Karen.
"Scalpel."
Karen paused, momentarily confused. "No Lidocaine?"
"No time," Dr. Collins responded. "Scalpel."
Karen sighed, feeling Sam's family watch her as she handed the doctor a scalpel, swallowing as he made an incision at the level of the second tracheal ring, making a vertical cut down to the fourth tracheal ring.
Dr. Collins performed a blunt dissection of the midline, finger piercing the membrane, and then passed the scalpel to Karen, exchanging it for an angiocatheter that he inserted between the tracheal rings. He aspirated air into the syringe and nodded.
So far, so good.
"Guidewire," he said and felt the requested material, with its characteristic J-shaped tip, placed in his outstretched hand.
Karen glanced at the door. She hated it when families had to watch this.
"Dilator."
Karen passed it over to the doctor, watching as he dilated the incision over the guidewire. She reached for the tracheostomy cannula she knew he would ask for in a few seconds once the stoma reached at adequate diameter.
As expected, Dr. Collins held out his hand, not even asking this time and yet still receiving what he needed. He gave a hint of a smile – always appreciative of a good nurse and a cohesive team – and placed the cannula within the tracheal lumen before removing the dilator and guidewire.
He glanced at Karen, her cue to connect the ventilator.
She did so and then held her breath as Dr. Collins snatched his stethoscope from his neck, listening intently.
"Good breath sounds bilaterally."
"O2 sats are 89 and rising," Ashley reported.
Karen glanced at the monitors to confirm for herself and exhaled, nodding at the door.
"Jesus..." John said in his own exhaled breath and saw Dean nod in agreement.
"Okay," Dr. Collins began, draping his stethoscope over his shoulders. "Let's move him downstairs for a spiral CT to scan for confirmation of a PE."
"Do you want to start a Heparin drip?" Karen asked.
"No, we'll wait until after the scan," Dr. Collins replied. "I don't want to thin his blood if we don't have to."
"But what if he just threw a major clot in his lung?" Karen countered.
"He also just had surgery and is recovering from massive internal bleeding. I don't want him to bleed out."
"He can survive some post-op bleeding. He's had the transfusions and can receive more," Karen pressed. "If it is a PE, and we don't thin his blood, he could throw another clot."
Dr. Collins seemed to consider her argument. "Alright, but call the blood bank. I want more FFP standing by, and we are not going to Heparinize for more than two hours."
Karen nodded, rushing to open the door as Ashley and Tina checked the monitors and pushed Sam's bed over the threshold and into the hall.
"Sam!" Dean yelled at the sight of his brother, immediately matching pace as he grabbed Sam's hand. "Where are you taking him?"
"Downstairs for a spiral CT," Dr. Collins informed as he walked briskly down the hall.
"Why?" John asked from beside Dean.
"Because we think he may have a pulmonary embolism."
"What the hell is that?" Bobby asked.
"A blood clot in his lungs," Jim responded and shook his head, remembering the outcome for a parishioner who had the same diagnosis about three years ago.
"Exactly," Dr. Collins agreed as he pushed the down arrow button.
Dean swallowed. "And what if that's what Sam has?"
"Then I'll be back to discuss our options," Dr. Collins answered cryptically.
John narrowed his eyes. "Meaning?"
"Meaning..."
Dr. Collins trailed off as Sam began to move restlessly on the bed. His patient regaining consciousness this soon was the last thing he expected.
And yet, in the next instant Sam's eyes snapped open as a harsh gasp and a strangled sound simultaneously tore from his mouth and throat.
Dean immediately reached out to still his brother's movements. "Sammy?"
At Dean's touch, Sam's eyes darted to his big brother, obviously panicked and confused as he continued to writhe, arms beginning to flail.
"Whoa, kiddo..." John said, gently restraining his youngest son.
Sam turned toward his father's voice, his confusion increasing.
John smiled softly. "Easy, Sammy."
"It's okay," Dean soothed, lightly rubbing Sam's chest, wondering which was worse – a tube protruding from his little brother's mouth...or a tube protruding from the center of his neck. He swallowed and forced a smile. "It's okay," he repeated, for himself as much as for Sam.
Sam blinked wide, terrified eyes at Dean, tears breaking free and sliding down his cheeks.
"You're okay," Dean assured, his voice stronger as he gently thumbed the moisture from Sam's face and softly kissed his little brother's forehead.
It was an uncharacteristic, extremely sentimental, sappy, girly gesture – especially with an audience – but Dean didn't give a flying shit. Sam had died – or at least had come pretty fucking close – and now his little brother was back, living and breathing, and Dean would kiss him if he wanted to.
"You had a setback, kiddo," Dean said, his face still close to Sam's, his words only meant for his little brother. "But you're gonna be okay."
Sam blinked slowly. He was fading fast, but his hand twitched as he weakly raised his pinky finger and stared at Dean. Promise?
Dean heard the elevator ding as the doors slid open and laughed hoarsely at his brother's gesture – remembering a time when a pinky promise meant everything to his little brother.
Dean's eyes stung with unshed tears as he extended his pinky and linked it with Sam's. "I promise, Sammy," he whispered, his forehead pressed against his brother's. "You just keep fighting, and I'll see you when you get back, okay?"
Okay, Sam agreed, barely squeezing Dean's finger in response as his eyes fluttered shut, and he was pushed onto the elevator.
Dean couldn't help the sense of déjà vu as the doors closed – had it really only been a few hours ago that he had squeezed Sam's hand before the kid had been wheeled off to surgery? And now his brother was being taken away again, in worse condition than before.
John sighed, the force and volume indicating his level of worry.
"God help me..." Jim's voice was quiet, as though he were admitting a horrible sin. "But I don't have a good feeling about this."
"Neither do I," Bobby agreed bluntly.
And Dean knew what they meant – but he also knew his little brother.
He pressed the down arrow button and glanced at his father, startled to see John staring straight back at him.
"He's gonna make it," John stated, not as a hope or a wish or a prayer but as a fact.
"Damn right he will," Dean agreed instantly, nodding and feeling more in tune with his dad than he had in a long time.
Bobby and Jim glanced at each other and then at father and son.
Bobby arched an eyebrow as Jim smiled softly in silent approval at the first steps of a mending relationship. All was not forgotten or forgiven between them – not yet...maybe not ever – but they had to start somewhere.
And leave it to Sam to be the catalyst.
The elevator arrived once again in a series of dings before its doors slid open.
"Gentlemen..." Jim prompted, boarding the elevator and holding the door open as his fellow hunters boarded as well.
John and Dean stood side-by-side as the doors closed, shoulders touching in subconscious solidarity as they went downstairs to wait.
TBC…not sure when…probably on Monday. It'll depend on how much time I can sneak in to write during the upcoming holidays.