This is my first attempt at writing a verse. For a time this was going to be a regular multi-chapter story, but after angsting about it for a while — much to poor Gredelina1's frustration — I decided a verse would work better for what I have in mind. This is a long one-shot as I originally planned for it to be three individual chapters. The others probably won't be as long.

Hope you enjoy…

Clowns or Midgets xxx

After The Fire

Sam looked up at the window and saw the outline of the demon. The fact the thing dared to come back and was now using its presence to taunt them, daring them to come back inside, made his rage peak.

He was in motion before he realized it, running back toward the house. "It's still in there."

He felt someone's fingers wrap around his wrist and knew it was Dean. "Sam! Sam, no!"

"Dean, let me go. It's still in there."

"No! It's burning to the ground. It's suicide!"

"I don't care!" Sam yelled. This was his chance to end it all, to avenge his mother and his love. If it killed him, it would be worth the sacrifice.

"I do!" Dean shouted in return, his features twisted with desperation.

Sam pulled back. "I'm sorry."

He cracked Dean across the temple with the hilt of the colt and Dean crumpled to the ground. Sam didn't look back as he ran into the burning building; he just stared at the flames and ran. He could feel the heat licking at his face as he moved forward, a warning not to do it, but he pushed through regardless, ignoring his body's instincts. His heart was in control, and what his heart wanted was revenge.

The banisters were in flames, but the stairs weren't. The unnatural fire was cleared in a path for him. He wondered if this was the demon's plan. Was he letting Sam approach so he could trap him in the flames and watch him die? It was a risk he had to take. This was the only way to end it all.

He raced up the stairs and turned into the nursery. The demon was still there, silhouetted against the streetlight pouring through the window.

"Hey!" Sam shouted, raising the gun.

The demon turned slowly, almost lazily, to face him, and Sam saw his eyes, his yellow eyes.

"You going to shoot me, Sammy?" the demon asked with a titter. "I don't think you will."

"You're wrong," Sam said brutally, taking a deep breath. On the exhale, he pulled the trigger, and time seemed to slow. He felt the kick of the gun rippling up his arm and he saw the demon's eyes widen. He looked stunned that Sam had dared to do it. He thought he'd done it, that the demon was dead, but in the split second before the bullet hit, the demon disappeared.

Sam dropped to his knees, defeated; he thought he'd done it. He was so sure that would be the end, but the demon had escaped again. He felt the heat of the fire through his jeans, burning his knees. A tear slipped from his eye and he didn't know if it was from the pain or the horror of his defeat.

"Sam!" The shout was hoarse and desperate, and he knew the speaker at once, Dean.

Sam heard a creaking groan from the house, and he knew he had to get out of there. Without the demon to command it, the flames were burning with abandon now, almost completely occluding the doorway through which he had to pass. The smoke was thick and choking. He hesitated for a second, trying to find the courage to rush through the flame, then he heard Dean shouting his name again and he knew it had to happen. Covering his face with his arms, he ran forward, through the flame, toward freedom and fresh air.

Consciousness came slowly to Dean, but his instincts had him struggling to his feet before his eyes had even cleared. Arms looped under his shoulders and helped him up.

"Sammy?" he asked drowsily.

"He went back in," a man's voice said.

It came to Dean in flashes. The demon. The crack of a gun. Grabbing the baby from the crib and running her to safety. Seeing the demon in the window. Sam struggling against him. Sam hitting him…

"Sam!" he bellowed.

He tried to run toward the house, but the arms that had helped him to his feet had wrapped around his chest like steel bands. Dean struggled but his head was still foggy and his limbs uncooperative from the blow to the head. He tried to vocalize his need. "Let me go. Sam. Fire. My brother. Have to save him."

"It's too late," the voice said. "It's too dangerous."

They didn't understand. He had to get in there. Sam needed him. Sam needed Dean to save him from the fire again.

"There was a gunshot."

Dean turned and saw the woman with the baby in her arms. Tears were streaking down her face, but the baby was silent, stirring in her mother's arms. He knew what she was saying, Sam had used the gun on himself, Dean might have thought the same, a gunshot to the head was a better way to go than burning to death, but he knew his brother. Sam wouldn't have done that. That gunshot had been Sam taking his shot at the demon. The only question now was whether it had worked. Had Sam done it? Was the demon finally gone?"

The house creaked and the arms holding him shuddered.

"Sam!" Dean bellowed again. The house was coming down, and his brother was still in there.

He struggled harder, and as his head cleared, it was easier to move. He heard the strain in his captor's breath as he panted on Dean's neck.

"It's not safe."

Of course, it wasn't safe. It was a damn fire and Sam was in there. That didn't matter though. Sam needed him and Dean was going to get there. He struggled to get away, and then he saw the most amazing thing. There was a shape moving beyond the flames of the open doorway, a tall, shaggy haired form.

"Sam?" Dean's voice was breathy with shock.

"Dean." The voice was hoarse but it was Sam.

"Get the hell out of there!"

Sam seemed to shrink back from the words, and then Dean realized what he was doing. The arms gripping him slackened and Dean pulled away in time to catch his brother as he leapt through the burning doorway.

He reacted automatically. He knocked Sam to the floor and rolled him, patting his smoldering clothes down with his hands, not feeling the heat burning him.

"S'okay," Sam said wheezily. "I'm okay."

Dean checked him over and could see no more fire or smoke coming from his brother's clothes, so he helped him to his feet and pulled him into a hug.

"Dammit, Sam," he said heavily as he pulled back.

"The ambulance is on the way," the woman said. Monica, now Dean could think again, he remembered her name was Monica.

Sam shook his head jerkily. "No need."

She opened her mouth to argue but Sam spoke over her, locking eyes with Dean. "We need to go."

Dean was torn. He wanted to get his brother checked out, he had just ran out of a burning building for crap's sake, but if Sam was saying go, there was a good reason behind it.

Sam made for the car and Dean followed automatically, ignoring the cries of protest following them. They would remain a mystery to the Holts. They would be the men that had saved them from a fire and disappeared into the night.

"You good to drive?" Sam asked.

"You think I'm letting you drive?"

Sam shrugged. "I got you pretty hard."

"I'm fine," Dean said sharply.

He slid in behind the wheel and gunned the engine to life as Sam slid in beside him. Sam leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. Dean reached out a smacked his shoulder. "Hey!" he said sharply. "You gotta stay awake, man." He was worried about the amount of smoke his brother had inhaled and the damage that could have been done.

"Not sleeping."

"Tell me what happened in there," Dean said, more to keep Sam awake that out of any real interest.

Sam looked across the space at Dean. "He got away." His voice was soft and mournful, and Dean felt a lump form in his throat as he recognized his brother's devastation.

He rallied for something to say, a way to comfort him, but his cell phone rang in his pocket, drawing his attention. He pulled it out and saw his father's name flashing across the screen.

"Dad?" Sam asked.

Dean nodded as he flipped it open. "Hey, Dad. Where are you?"

A voice replied, but it wasn't John, it was Meg. "You boys really screwed up this time."

Dean's voice was harsh, not belying the fact he was terrified. "Where is he?"

"You're never going to see your father again."

Bobby untied the ropes and Sam eased Meg to the floor, apologizing for hurting her again and again.

"A year," she said in a strained voice.

"What?" Sam asked.

Dean was horrified that Sam's voice sounded almost as strained as hers. She was dying from the catastrophic injuries of being thrown out of a building. Sam was just dealing with a little smoke inhalation and fatigue, wasn't he? He didn't have time to press the idea through to completion. Meg was dying and she was the only clue they had to their father's whereabouts.

"It's been a year."

"Shh," Sam soothed. "Just take it easy."

"I've been awake for some of it. I couldn't move my own body. The things I did—it's a nightmare."

Dean had sympathy for her, he really did, but it was his father's life on the line and he needed information. "Was it telling us the truth about our Dad? Is he alive? Where are they keeping him?"

"By the river. Sunrise."

"'Sunrise'. What does that mean?"

She could not answer. She was dead.

Dean got to his feet and turned away, raking his hands through his hair in frustration. What were they supposed to do now? They knew he was in Jefferson City, Missouri, and there was something about Sunrise, but that was it.

"Sam, you okay, boy?" Bobby asked.

Dean turned back in time to see his brother waver on his feet. His skin was pale and Dean could see a sheen of sweat on his face. His breaths seemed hard to get; he was wheezing.

"Sam?" He gripped his brother's shoulders and ducked his head so he was in his line of sight. "Hey! Hey, tell me what's going on?"

"Can't breathe," Sam wheezed.

"Okay, the hell with this," Dean said. "We're getting you to a hospital."

Bobby had wrapped Sam's burned arms when they'd arrived and had advised them to get Sam checked out at the hospital when he'd heard the story of Sam running back into the building, but then Meg had arrived and the discussion had been put on the backburner.

"No!" Sam gasped. "Dad."

Dean was torn. He wanted to get his father back, but Sam looked like he was really in trouble now. He knew what John's priority would be, so he squeezed Sam's shoulders and spoke firmly. "Bobby will get Dad. You and me are going to the hospital?"

Sam shook his head, but he was wavering even more now, and Dean's decision was made.

"I'll take care of John," Bobby said. "You boys go by the hospital and get checked out."

"How will you find him?" Sam asked doubtfully.

Bobby shook his head. "You ain't even got half a clue of what I'm capable of. I'll find your daddy and I'll get him here. Now, do as you're told and get to the hospital."

Sam didn't respond but nor did he argue as Dean led him out to the Impala and pulled open the door. He slumped down into the seat and moved sluggishly as he shifted to face the windscreen.

"You sure you got this, Bobby?" Dean asked across the roof of the car.

"I do. You just take care of your brother." He paused for a moment, as if weighing something up in his mind. "Dean, drive fast."

A chill of fear curled around his heart at Bobby's words and his grave expression, and he nodded curtly before sliding in behind the wheel, He turned the keys in the ignition and the engine rumbled to life.

"You okay, Sammy?" he asked, glancing sideways at his brother.

"Yeah. I'll be fine."

Dean didn't truly believe that, Sam looked like hell, and Dean couldn't help but worry about what damage all that smoke could have done. "Keep talking, okay?"

Sam nodded slowly but didn't speak.

"Sam!" Dean leaned over and thwacked Sam's arm. "Talk! Tell me about the demon."

"It had yellow eyes," Sam said lethargically. "I tried to shoot him. He disappeared."

"Good. Tell me something else. Anything." They were on the main road now. Dean remembered the way to hospital from a visit years before.

Sam didn't answer and Dean's eyes snapped to him. "Hey! Sam! Wake up, buddy."

Dean's control of the wheel slipped and the car veered before he could correct it. Sam was jostled by the motion, but he didn't move otherwise.

"Sam, wake up!" Dean commanded.

For a second, Dean considered pulling over and attempting to bring his brother back to consciousness, but he realized the most important thing was getting him to the hospital and a doctor, so he pressed his foot down on the accelerator and coaxed a little more speed out of the engine. His eyes kept drifting sideways to his unconscious brother, and he had to force them back to the road every time. It wouldn't do either of them any good to wrap the car around a tree.

He began to speak in his nerves, prattling on about everything and nothing to replace the awful silence from his brother. He was still talking five minutes later as he spied the hospital looming over the smaller buildings.

The tires squealed as he pulled off the road and up to the hospital entrance, and he threw open his door, shouting for help even as he eased open the passenger door. Sam was slumped against it, and Dean had to brace him with a hand at his shoulder to stop him spilling out onto the asphalt.

There was a flurry of movement around the car, and hands pressed in at Sam, reaching for him and pulling him out of the car and onto a gurney. Other hands gripped Dean and moved him aside. It was only the knowledge that these people would be better able to help Sam than him that made it possible for him to step back and let them work.

"This kid's not breathing!" a harsh voice said.

Dean's legs weakened and he sucked in a breath.

"Pulse?" a second voice asked.

"No!"

The voices continued speaking, barking orders and exchanging information as Sam was raced away into the hospital. For a moment, Dean was frozen in place, unable to move a muscle, then he lurched into action, racing after the gurney taking his brother away.

A hand caught his arm and tried to turn him, saying something about moving the car, but Dean just threw the car keys over his shoulder and ran on through the doors. They could move the car or tow it away. Hell, they could steal it for all he cared.

He was only delayed a matter of seconds, but it was long enough for him to lost track of Sam. He raced through the automatic doors and into a vast room with curtained off cubicles and three sliding glass doors at the end marked as trauma bays. He made straight for the middle door, instinctively knowing that was where Sam was. As it slid open, a cacophony of noise spilled out into the hall. Dean didn't think anyone noticed him coming into the room; its occupants were all absorbed with the figure on the bed, Sam, but a nurse turned and frowned as she saw him. Dean stared defiantly back, daring her to attempt to make him leave. It wasn't going to happen. She didn't, but she did lead him to a corner and order him to stay out of the way.

There were half a dozen people in the room working over Sam, and Dean had to rely on the voices more than what he could see to understand what was happening, as all he could see was Sam's head and flashes of his torso.

"Give me an airway."

Hands appeared and tilted Sam's head back. A curved, metal instrument was inserted into his mouth and a thin plastic tube was threaded through it. It was connected to an ambu-bag and a pair of hands began to squeeze it.

A new noise joined that hubbub of the room, a droning alarm as the heart monitor was connected to Sam.

"Clear!"

There was a humming sound and then Sam's torso arched from the bed as the current passed through him. Dean winced at the sickening thump sound as his back hit the thinly padded bed, making it rattle.

"Anything?"

"Nothing."

"Charge again."

Time seemed to slow. He had no idea how long he was there, watching as they fought to get Sam back. His pulse pounded in his ears and his breathing stuttered, and he waited for it to work, for Sam to be saved, because there was no way this could be it. Sam couldn't die. He was young and fit; he would beat this.

Sounds were muffled, as if he was hearing them underwater, but one voice broke through the haze and tore the tenuous grip he had on his emotions. "Call it?"

"No!" Dean bellowed, fighting to get to Sam. "No! No! No! You can't."

Hands gripped his shoulders and pulled him back, and he fought, struggling to release himself, to get to Sam.

"Please," he begged, even as he was dragged toward the door. "You can't stop!"

"Get him out of here," a voice commanded, and Dean was dragged bodily from the room.

"You can't!" he shouted. "He's my brother!"

"And you're hurting him," a deep, male voice said. "The more people out here dealing with you, the less there are helping your brother."

The words worked like a bucket of cold water over Dean. He stopped struggling at once. "Help him?" Though he had meant it to sound like a command, it came out as a question.

"I will if you stay out here."

Dean nodded mutely and stared through the glass door. He didn't have much of a view of Sam from there, but he could see the people around him, and they weren't idle. He saw the flex of a doctor's shoulders as he pressed the paddles once more to Sam's chest.

Dean did something he hadn't done since he was four years old and sheltered under his mother's love. He prayed.

Dean was sitting bowed over in the chair in the waiting room, with his hands clasped between his bouncing knees and his eyes locked on the floor. The adrenaline was still coursing through him, making his mouth dry and his hands tremble. Sounds were too loud and lights too bright. A cough from the man sitting opposite him made him start and look up. The man grimaced apologetically, and Dean ran his hands over his face.

He didn't want to be here. Not in this hospital or this city or even this state. He wanted to be on the road with Sam, on the way to rescue their father. He wanted to be anywhere that meant Sam wasn't barely clinging to life beyond those glass doors.

They'd got him back. Dean didn't know how many times they had shocked him before his heart had started, but it had worked. Sam was saved. Dean had stood outside the room, with his hands pressed against the cool glass as if he could forge a connection to his brother that way, and watched as the monitor beside the bed came to life with Sam's heartbeat. Things from there had become hazy in Dean's memory. He remembered people coming and going and someone leading him away and depositing him in the chair he was still sitting in now. Someone had come with a clipboard and questions, but Dean had ignored them until they'd gone. That could have been minutes ago or hours, he wasn't sure.

The door opened and a man wearing navy scrubs came out. His eyes skimmed the waiting room and came to rest on Dean. Dean's heart quickened and he got to his feet to meet the man.

"Mr…?"

"Dean," he said quickly. "How's my brother?"

The man frowned slightly. "I'm Doctor Maxwell. I've been treating your brother. Shall we sit?"

"Honestly, doc, I've been sitting for I don't know how long. I'm happy standing if you'd just tell me what's happening to Sam."

"Sam?" The doctor nodded. "It's good to have a name for him. Well, Sam is stable at the moment."

Stable was good. It wasn't the best. That would be if the doctor was here to tell him it was okay to take Sam home now, that Sam was currently pitching a bitch fit about being in the hospital and the staff were done with his crap. That would have been awesome, but Dean was going to cling to stable and keep hanging there until they reached awesome.

"What's wrong with him?" Dean asked. "I mean… what happened? He was okay, and then he wasn't."

"I gather from the burns that your brother was involved in a fire of some sort."

"There was a house fire. Someone was inside and Sam went in." That was the bare truth, though the doctor couldn't know the reality of it.

"A hero, huh?"

Dean fought the urge to snort. Sam was a hero, that wasn't in question, but he hadn't been a hero when he'd run back into that burning building. He'd been driven by revenge, and he hadn't cared that it could kill him. He had willingly risked his life and his presence in Dean's because of that. He was John Winchester's son to his bones.

"Something like that."

"Well, when Sam went into that building, he inhaled smoke and that has damaged his lungs. The damage was severe enough to cause respiratory failure and that's what caused his cardiac arrest."

"But he'll be okay, right? I mean you got his heart beating again, so he'll be all right?"

"What you have to understand is that Sam has already exceeded expectations. We almost never get a patient that has coded from smoke damage to revive. Sam's heart is beating, that's an achievement in itself." The doctor looked at him sympathetically. "Sam is fighting, Dean. He's still here, which is down to him more than us."

"But you're helping him, right. It's not just down to him?"

"We've got him on prophylactic antibiotics to stave off infection and he's receiving oxygen therapy by way of the ventilator. We have blood in the lab to screen for poisons from the smoke, and if any of note show, we will treat them accordingly. We're doing all we can to support him, but ultimately, it comes down to him."

Dean groaned and covered his face with his hands. He wanted the doctor to leave now, to let him be alone to deal with what he had heard, but the doctor went on remorselessly. "Dean, when you arrived at the hospital, Sam was in cardiac arrest. How long was he down for?"

"I don't know," Dean said. "It couldn't have been that long. No more than five minutes."

"Five minutes…"

For the first time, Dean actually considered what had happened. Until then, he had been trying to ignore the memory of his brother slumped in the seat beside him, not breathing, heart not beating, technically dead. He knew basic emergency medicine and field surgery, it had been part of their education and induction into the hunting world, and he knew why the doctor was looking so grave; oxygen deprivation was dangerous.

"Oh, God," he moaned. "What did I do?"

Doctor Maxwell braced a hand on Dean's shoulder. "You got him to the hospital as fast as you could. You did the right thing."

That wasn't entirely true though. He could have made Sam go to the hospital as soon as they got out of Salvation, but he'd let himself be caught up with Meg's call and worry about his father. He'd failed. If they'd been in the hospital, Sam would have been taken care of straight away. There wouldn't have been any crap about oxygen deprivation, as they'd have known as soon as Sam crashed what was happening and they would have saved him.

"What's going to happen to him?" he asked in a hoarse voice. "How damaged is he going to be?"

"We don't know if there will be any damage yet. It's possible we got to your brother before cell death could occur."

Dean shook his head slowly. "Please don't treat me like an idiot. Be honest with me. What's going to happen to him?"

"Brass tacks kinda guy, huh?" The doctor stared into his eyes for a moment, assessing him, and then he spoke. "At the moment, Sam isn't showing signs of independent respiration. The ventilator is the only thing keeping him breathing. His GCS is three, which is as low as it gets. Brass tacks: your brother is in a deep coma and I have no guarantee that he will ever wake up, and even if he does, he may not be the person you knew before. He may be so profoundly damaged that he will wish he had died."

Dean nodded soberly, absorbing the information, and then sprinted for the bathroom. He threw open the cubicle door and dropped down in front of the toilet. His stomach heaved and he gagged and retched. There was nothing in his stomach to lose but the belt of whiskey Bobby had given him, and he was overwhelmed with cramps as he lost bile.

He stayed bowed over the toilet for a long time, trying to calm his churning stomach, until an interruption came in the form of his phone buzzing in his pocket. He leaned back against the cubicle wall and pulled it out, checking the caller ID.

"Bobby?"

"It's me."

"Dad?" Dean's head fell back against the wall and he breathed a sigh of relief at his father's voice. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine. Bobby got me out. How's Sam? Bobby said he was hurt."

"He's…" Dean swallowed against the lump in his throat. "He's hurt bad, Dad."

He heard his father suck in a sharp breath. "Where are you?"

"Sioux Falls General."

"Good. That's good. What's the story?"

"All I've told them is that Sam was in a fire. Someone came by earlier, asking questions, but I didn't tell them anything."

"Okay," John said. "I've got insurance that should stand up to basic scrutiny. The name's McGillicutty. Don't tell them anything more than necessary. I'll take care of it when I get there. We're still In Missouri but I've got the truck, so I'll be with you by morning. You hold on till then?"

"Yeah, Dad." It was childish and stupid, but Dean had an innate belief that his father could fix anything, and knowing that he was on his way made him feel some semblance of relief, as if his father's presence would make Sam okay again.

"I'll see you real soon, Son. Tell Sam I'm coming."

Dean hesitated for a moment, trying to summon the will to tell his father that Sam was in no condition to understand or even hear what Dean was saying. He couldn't find the words. "I… I will."

Without further goodbyes, John ended the call and Dean shoved his phone back in his pocket. He got to shaky feet and left the cubicle. He slashed cool water on his face and rinsed his mouth, removing the foul taste of his sickness. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the sink. All the stress in his body was reflected in his wild eyes and grey skin. His face misted as tears came to his eyes and he shook his head briskly and sniffed. He couldn't let the tears start as he had a very real fear that if they did they would never stop. He was Dean Winchester, John son and Sam's brother; he wasn't going to hide in a bathroom crying. There was no reason to cry. Sam was going to be fine. In a couple weeks, they would be on the road again. Or would they?

The day Sam was born, a nurse had placed him in John's arms, a squalling and writhing mass. John had looked down at the crying bundle and his heart had swelled with love. Then Sam had looked up into his eyes, a small frown gracing his brow. It felt to John that Sam was analyzing him and deciding whether or not to place his trust in this man for his protection and love in this new, frightening world. When Sam's cries quieted and he began to coo happily instead, John felt that he was being accepted.

Sam had been an easy baby. He'd been happy as long as one of his family was close to him. That all changed after his sixth month. When Mary died, John had become a man wracked with grief and consumed with revenge. He still dealt with the boys' needs, feeding them and clothing them, but somewhere along the way being their dad instead of just their father fell by the wayside. Dean, though only four years old himself, picked up the slack. When Sam fussed, Dean was the one to comfort him. John didn't realize the price of his distraction until the day Sam spoke his first word. It wasn't Dada as Dean's had been. It was Dee, a truncated version of his brother's name.

It wasn't that Sam stopped loving his father. He still held his small, pudgy arms in the air to be held when John was near, but when he fell and bumped his knee as he learned to walk, it was Dean he looked to first for comfort. That just about broke John's heart.

John heart was broken a second time the day he came home from a hunt just after Christmas when Sam was eight. When he had left, Sam had pleaded with him not to go, to stay for Christmas, but people were dying and John had to do what he could. He'd come home, exhausted and depressed and wanting nothing more than to bask in the love of his children for a while, to find that Sam had changed. He looked at his father with a wariness that John couldn't understand or bear. It was days later that Dean admitted the change was because Sam had found out the truth of the world. His youngest son, the one whose innocence he and Dean had both fought to maintain, was different. When he looked at John, there was betrayal in his eyes.

Their relationship had never fully recovered. As Sam grew so did the tension between them. By the time Sam was preparing to graduate high school, he and John butted heads on a daily basis. Unlike Dean, who was a hunter through and through, Sam begrudged the hunts, hated them even. He questioned John at every turn. Then the day came that Sam, bursting with excitement, had announced that he had been accepted into college. He had enthused about the quality of the school and the fact it wouldn't cost John a penny, as if that was what John cared about. All he could think of was that his son was going into the world, leaving him and Dean behind, and he wouldn't be able to protect him anymore.

They'd fought, the worst fight they'd ever had, and Sam had packed his bags. Even as he did it, stuffing shirts and jeans into his duffel, John had been sure it was just a show of protest. He never thought Sam would really leave them, leave his brother. But he had. And as John watched him pull open the cabin door and walk through, he had shouted the words that he had privately regretted more than any he'd ever spoken: 'If you go, don't think you can come back. You stay gone.'

Now, as John stood outside the glass door of the ICU room his son was in, he felt his heart break all over again.

He'd had no idea it was this bad.

Bobby had told him Sam had burns and was having trouble catching his breath when he'd left him, but he'd made it sound like this was something minor, that Sam was banged up but essentially okay. Sam was not okay.

John eased open the door and crept inside. Dean was in a chair beside the bed, fast asleep with his chin resting on his chest. One hand was in his lap and the other was stretched across the distance to rest on his brother's arm. John stared at his eldest for a moment before forcing himself to look at Sam properly and take it all in.

He was bare except for a sheet that covered him to the waist and clean white bandages on his forearms. A clear plastic tube parted his lips, connecting to the ventilator that breathed for him, and it clicked and hummed with every artificial breath forced into Sam's lungs. Beside the bed was a monitor recording Sam's heartbeat, blood pressure and oxygen sats.

It was all so wrong. Sam was never supposed to look like this. He was the one always in motion. Even when reading, he wasn't still; his knees would bounce and his fingers would tap the pages. When he slept, he tossed and turned, caught in his vivid dreams. Though he was silent now and still, he didn't look peaceful. He looked wrecked.

John felt a lump form in his throat and his breaths came out shaky. He stepped closer to the bed and traced a finger over the back of Sam's hand, trying to forge some connection with his son. He felt nothing but sorrow though as he touched him. He could imagine Sam's raised eyebrows and confused expression if he was awake to see what his father was doing, and the fact Sam couldn't react cut him deep.

"Damn, Sammy."

His voice was soft, but it cut into Dean's rest and he jerked awake. His eyes immediately found his brother, and he sighed his name, his disappointment that Sam was still sleeping clear in his tone.

He turned to take in the room and started as he saw his father standing the other side of the bed. "Dad?"

John hadn't seen Dean cry in a long time. Not since he was in his teens and John had got bashed pretty bad in a werewolf hunt. John had been knocked unconscious when he was thrown into a wall, and when he'd come round Dean had been leaning over him, tears streaming down his face and begging John to wake up. Dean wasn't crying now, but he looked close to it. John wanted to comfort him, to hold him against his chest and allow his eldest son the release, but he knew him too well to try. Dean was strong to a fault and he wouldn't want John to see him break.

Instead of comfort, he offered direction, keeping his tone calm and his face devoid of expression. "What happened?"

Dean swallowed thickly. "It was the demon. We went to the family Sam saw in his vision. We got there in time to save them, but there was fire. We got out, but Sam saw the demon in the window. I tried to stop him, Dad, I swear I tried, but he knocked me out and went back in." A haunted look came into his eyes, and John knew he was reliving that moment. "The fire got worse, and the house was going to come down. I thought… I thought he was gone, but he got out." He raked a hand over his face, as if wiping away the tears that hadn't fallen. "He was okay, a little banged up but okay. I thought he'd be fine, but after we exorcised the other demon, Meg, he couldn't breathe. I brought him to the hospital…"

"You did the right thing. You saved him."

Dean shook his head. "He died, Dad, in the car. I thought he was just unconscious, but he wasn't. When we got here, his heart wasn't beating."

John closed his eyes for a moment, absorbing the shock, and then looked down at Sam's supine form again. "They got him back though. He'll be fine.

Dean shook his head. "I don't know if he will. The doctor's talking about damage. He was without oxygen for a long time…" He broke off and looked determinedly at the opposite wall, as if unable to bear to meet his father's eyes. "I messed up."

There was something so raw and desperate in Dean voice that John felt he was being torn in two. He moved around the bed and stood beside his eldest son. Not caring that Dean would hate him for it, he gripped his neck and pulled him against his chest. It was comfort he knew his son would reject, and at first he did, and then he seemed to bow under the force of his grief. His shoulders started to shake and he pressed his face into his father's shirt, wetting it with his tears.

"You didn't mess up. It's okay," John said. "Sammy's gonna be fine." He looked down on the bed at his youngest and nodded firmly. "He's gonna be just fine."

John had always known the mission to kill the demon could kill him. He'd made his peace with that. What he had never considered was that it might cost him his sons, and it would be both. If Sam died, he would lose Dean too just as surely as if he had put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. He wouldn't do that, he knew his son, but he would be changed irrevocably, a shadow of the man he was with his brother in the world. Dean wouldn't be the only one ruined by it. Sam was John's son. He loved him and his brother more than anything in the world. Everything he did, every hunt he took was for them, to remove one more threat from their world. If he lost Sam, he would never recover.

He had never considered that there was more than one way to lose someone, but now, as he sat in this doctor's office, listening to him reel off the possible consequences of Sam's cardiac arrest, he realized there was another. Sam could live but be forever changed. He could never wake up. He could wake up and be permanently damaged to a degree that he would never know his family again. He could be blind. He could be paralyzed or unable to control his limbs. His memory could be affected. He could have seizures. The list went on and on.

One thing seemed clear, the longer Sam was unconscious, trapped in a coma, the worse the damage would be. The sooner Sam woke, the better his chances of recovery.

"Have you told Dean any of this?" John asked.

The doctor scrutinized John carefully. "My colleague in the ER said he had been apprised of the basics of your son's injury and prognosis, but I haven't spoken to him personally."

"Good. Don't."

"I'm sorry?"

"Don't tell him," John said. "if he asks questions, tell him it's too soon to tell."

"Don't you think it would be better for him to know what to expect?"

John shook his head briskly. "What happened to Sam was an accident, but Dean blames himself. If he knew how bad things were, it would make it so much worse for him. He's barely hanging on as it is. If the time comes to tell him, I'll be the one to do it. That's my job."

The doctor nodded slowly. "I will adhere to your wishes, of course, but I would like it known that I disagree. In my experience, the more information on offer, the better people are able to prepare."

The problem with that was the fact Dean didn't need to prepare for anything. Sam was going to be fine. He'd make sure of it. He had a plan.

He left the doctor's office and made his way along the hall to Sam's room. Glancing through the door showed him that Dean was awake, and from the way his head bobbed, John guessed he was speaking to Sam. Not wanting to interrupt, he continued down the hall to the family room. It was empty, and he sat down on one of the plush chairs and buried his face in his hands.

His mind was reeling from everything he'd heard. He couldn't bear the thought of his son dying, but what would perhaps be worse was if he lived, if he stayed locked inside himself forever. That was no fate for Sam. He was too bright, too great to be lost. He still had a whole life to live. He needed to go to college and fulfill his dreams. He needed to be there for Dean. He needed so much and the price of his future was John's. John wasn't afraid of death, but he would be lying if he said he wasn't afraid of Hell. It had to happen though. Sam had to be saved, and John was the one that was going to do it. He was going to find a crossroads and sell his soul.

He delayed though, not through fear of what was to come, but through the desire to have just a little longer with his boys. He didn't believe any demon would give him time after the deal was made. He was too much of a nuisance to them for him to be allowed ten years. It would be an all or nothing deal. He needed a little time. Just another day. Sam could hold on that long. Just one more day with his boys.

Satisfied with his decision, John got to his feet and scrubbed a hand over his face. He had to make this time count. He had to make sure Dean knew it wasn't his fault, and he needed to say goodbye to Sam.

He pulled open the door and then froze as he saw people sprinting along the hall. He knew, even without seeing the door they were running to, that it was Sam. He had waited too long. He should have acted as soon as he had seen Sam and known how bad it was. How was he going to save him now?

He ran along the halls to Sam's room, following a nurse through the door. There were people around Sam's bed and orders being shouted, and his heart leapt into his throat. He wanted to be near Sam, to hold him and tell him to hang on a little longer, that he was going to fix this, but he knew the people around the bed would be better able to help than his words.

Dean was standing in the corner with his hands over his mouth as if he couldn't bear to see what was happening but was scared to look away. John moved to stand beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. Dean's hand fell to his sides and he looked at his father with unconcealed desperation.

"What happened?" John's voice came out harsh with fear and Dean flinched.

"I don't know. He was okay, and then it was like he was choking. His heart was racing, and alarms were going. Dad, what's happening?"

John shook his head. "I don't know." He paid attention to the people around the bed and listened to what they were saying.

"Extubate?"

"I think so. He's not calming. How's his GCS?"

"Decerebrate posturing."

"Good. Let's get this out and we can see what we're working with."

The word good in reference to his son made John's heart slow its frantic pounding a little. Nothing had been good so far. It had all been damage and critical.

There was a horrible retching gagging sound, and one of the nurses around the bed stepped back so John had a clear view of Sam. The tube in his throat had been removed.

"What are they doing?" Dean asked frantically. "He needs that!"

"Not anymore," the doctor said, turning from Sam to face them. "He's breathing unassisted now."

"What does that mean?" Dean asked.

The doctor smiled. "It means he's on his way back."

John closed his eyes and a tear slipped down his cheek. His hand on Dean's shoulder was shaking, but he was overwhelmed with relief. He watched carefully as an oxygen mask was placed over Sam's face and the people crowding the bed slowly walked from the room, leaving the doctor alone with them.

Dean drifted out from under John's hand and moved to the side of the bed again. He reached down and laid a hand on Sam's arm. "So, he's okay?"

The doctor considered for a moment before answering, and John was sure he was remembering their conversation. "He's improving," he said carefully. "Sam is decerebrate posturing now, which is raising his score on the GCS. That and the fact he is breathing unassisted is progress. He's still in a coma, but for the first time he's showing signs that he's coming back to you."

Dean drew a shaky breath and turned away, his hands coming up to his face again. John knew he was allowing a shard of weakness in relief to break his careful control, and he was glad. The more Dean bottled up the greater the explosion when it all came down.

Wanting to distract the doctor from Dean, John asked, "What can we do? How do we help him?"

"Talk to him. Touch him. Connect with him in any way you can. He needs stimulation, a reason to wake, and as his family you're the best people to do that for him."

Was that true for John? He was family, but he hadn't had a close connection with his youngest son for a long time. He had to try though. It wasn't a time to hold onto old grudges; it was time to lay himself bare.

The doctor excused himself and John sat down on the chair beside Sam's bed. He reached out and entwined his fingers with Sam's, noticing the calluses and scars across the knuckles. John hand's were callused and scarred, too, the marks of a hunter. Despite the fact he'd spent years wishing his youngest would step up to the plate and become a hunter, the signs of it marring Sam's skin now made him sad. He would do anything, be anything, if it meant Sam would come out of this intact. If he wanted an education, John would drive him to the campus himself. If Sam wanted to hunt, John would make sure he was there for every case, ready and able to protect his son. Anything if he would just be okay.

Neither John nor Dean were emotionally verbose. Dean had emulated his father from an early age, and a part of that had been to develop the walls that kept his feelings hidden. He hadn't seen his father openly distraught since Sam was a child and Dean had almost allowed him to be attacked by the Shtriga. Then John's fear had been tempered with anger, now he was just scared. Dean expected anger. He had really screwed up, but instead of letting loose a string of accusations and remonstrances, John had held Dean and let him cry. Dean didn't know whether he would have preferred anger.

After the doctor left and Dean got his emotions under control, he took a seat on the opposite side of the bed and stared at Sam. He looked a little better now, without the tube down his throat, but his eyes were still closed and his expression lax.

The doctor had said they needed to talk to Sam, to connect with him, but Dean didn't know what to say. John seemed to be having the same trouble, as he looked across the bed at Dean.

"You know, out of the three of us, Sam's the best equipped to deal with this. I mean, if one of us was in his place, he'd know what to say to us. I sit here and think, but I just don't know what to say. Sam would know. I look at him, and he's my boy, but I can't find the words."

Dean wanted to comfort his father more than anything, but he didn't know what to say. He wasn't comfortable with this side of John. He was used to him barking orders and knowing what to do, making the plans and executing them, no room for doubt. He wished he would give an order now.

"I don't know what to say either," he admitted. "Can he even hear us?"

John shook his head. "I don't know, son. I hope so."

Dean hoped so too. If Sam couldn't hear them, it would mean they were useless there, that there was nothing they could do to reach him.

They sat in silence for a while. Dean was trying to come up with something, anything to say to his brother. It had never been a problem before. He and Sam had always fit. Their conversations were effortless. Even after he had sprung Sam from college, years after they'd last spoken, it was easy. The problem was easily identified. It was hard because Sam couldn't talk back.

"I'm going to get us some coffee," John said, getting to his feet. "You stay and keep an eye on Sam." He patted Sam's shoulder. "I'll be right back."

Dean watched him go and then he turned his eyes back to Sam. Not that he would ever admit it, but it was easier for him to be away from his father now. He could do what he knew—take care of Sam—without being watched.

"You know, Sam, when you wake up, I'm going to kick your ass for that damn stupid move you pulled. Not just running into the fire, you knocked me out, man. That's earned you a cracked jaw at least. But I'll make you a deal; you wake up now, I won't hit you."

He had no confidence that it would work, so he wasn't disappointed when Sam slept on. Reaching across the bed, he picked up Sam's hand and cupped it between his own. He would never do this ordinarily, Sam would never let him, but he figured unconsciousness was its own pass for stuff like this.

"You should never have gone in that house, Sam. I know you want to take out the demon, hell, I get it, I want it dead too, but it's not worth losing you, nothing's worth that. If hunting this demon means getting yourself killed, then I hope we never find the damn thing."

He could imagine Sam's furious reaction to that, and the fact he couldn't show it, maybe couldn't even hear it, made him turn away and rub at his face. He just needed Sam's eyes open. Was that too much to ask? If he would just wake up, they'd deal with whatever came next together. Sam couldn't stay like this forever.

"Sam, please," he said hoarsely. "Please wake up. Just open your eyes. Please, man."

He knew he was begging, and he didn't care. He just needed something to happen, anything, any sign that Sam was hearing him. Then it did. Sam's fingers twitched against his hand.

He gasped. "Sam! Do it again!"

There was an answering twitch. Dean's heart leapt into his throat and he gripped Sam's hand tighter. Sam's eyes rolled beneath their lids.

"That's it, Sammy. Come on, buddy. You can do it. Open your eyes."

The fondest memory Dean had up until then was the last night his mother tucked him into bed. She had pressed a kiss to his temple and told him she loved him and that angels would watch over him while he slept. Now that was eclipsed by the perfect moment of Sam's eyes opening. He blinked lazily for a moment, and then they closed again.

"Sam!" Dean said harshly. "None of that, man. Eyes open."

Sam opened his eyes again, but his gaze didn't move from the ceiling.

The doctor's warning echoed in Dean's mind. 'He may be so profoundly damaged that he will wish he had died.' Was that what this was? Had Sam woken just to stay like this forever, unable to react to Dean?

His hand slammed down on the call button and he waited, heart in his throat, for someone to come. The door slid open and the doctor came in.

"Everything okay, Dean?"

"He's waking up," Dean said. "His eyes are open."

The doctor smiled. "That's wonderful news."

Dean was encouraged by his tone but not convinced. Sam had opened his eyes, which was great, but he hadn't looked at Dean. He figured after the rundown on Sam's condition he had from the ER doctor, open eyes were wonderful, but it wasn't enough for Dean. He wanted more from his brother, needed more. He needed him making eye contact and talking. He needed proof that Sam really was okay and not a vegetable.

The doctor moved to the opposite side of the bed and looked down at Sam. "Sam, look at me!" he said in a commanding voice.

Sam's eyes drifted to the side and came to rest on the doctor. Dean felt an inkling of hope. He was responding.

"You try," the doctor said. "See if he can lock onto you."

"Sam," Dean said firmly. "Look at me."

Sam's gaze fell on him and then the most incredible thing happened. He looked from Dean's face to where he was cupping Sam's hand and his lips tugged up into a smile and his eyebrows lifted. Though he didn't say a word, his message was as clear as if he'd spoken aloud. 'Dude, what the hell!'

Dean grinned but didn't release Sam's hand. "Yeah, suck it up."

Sam smiled again and Dean's worry slipped from his shoulders. Sam was awake and responding. He couldn't be so damaged if he was doing that, could he?"

The door opened behind them, and Dean turned in time to see his father blanche as he caught sight of the doctor beside the bed. "Dean, what's happening?" he asked.

"It's okay," Dean said. "Look who's awake."

John stepped around him and looked at Sam, his face breaking into a wide, relieved smile. "Hey, son. Good to see you back."

Sam looked down to where Dean was cradling his hand within his own and he raised an eyebrow. What the hell was all that about? Dean was not a tactile person; the only contact he usually initiated was a slap on the arm or a pat on the shoulder, excepting the time they'd found John in Chicago after searching for him for months. Then John and Dean had embraced, and Sam had seen the huge relief in Dean's eyes as he'd felt proof that their father was really there and okay.

Dean grinned. "Yeah, suck it up."

Sam smiled again, taking comfort in his brother's reaction. If Dean was smiling, John couldn't be too bad, could he?

Sam heard the door open and then his father's voice. "Dean, what's happening?"

"It's okay," Dean said. "Look who's awake."

John stepped into view and Sam relaxed. He was there, and he was okay, although a little beaten up and pale. His face broke into a wide smile and he said, "Hey, Son. Good to see you back."

Sam smiled. "How long was I out?" his voice came out hoarse and tired, and at first he thought that was why they looked confused. He cleared his throat and asked again, but their expressions grew even more grave. Was there worse news to come? Had he missed months and they were afraid to tell him?

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Dean and John exchanged a tense glance.

"Try again, son," John said in a strained tone.

"What is wrong?" Sam asked slowly and clearly.

John turned his attention to the doctor and asked. "What's wrong with him?"

Sam waited as eagerly as his father for the answer. He didn't understand what was making them look so worried.

The doctor sighed and raked a hand over his face. "Aphasia."

Sam turned to his father. "Dad, what's happening?"

"What the hell does that mean?" Dean asked angrily.

The doctor didn't answer. He turned his attention to Sam. "Sam, I need you to stay calm and repeat what I say. Try to say 'I am in the hospital'."

Speaking slowly and carefully, Sam repeated the doctor's words. They sounded fine to him. His voice was a little tired and hoarse, but he was speaking clearly. That didn't explain why the doctor's brow furrowed and John and Dean exchanged a worried glance.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I want you to stay calm," the doctor said. "You are suffering from something called aphasia. It means that you aren't saying the words you think you are. We can't understand you."

Sam's heart pounded and he looked at Dean, desperate for him to contradict the doctor's words, but Dean merely looked horrified.

"Calm, Sam," the doctor said. "Take a deep breath for me."

Sam tried but it was like the air caught in his throat. He gasped for air, feeling like there was no oxygen in the room. The doctor was talking, but Sam wasn't listening. He was losing himself to panic.

John laid a hand on his shoulder and spoke firmly. "Take a deep breath!" It was a tone Sam was used to. It was John Winchester at his most commanding. It usually made him pissed to hear his father talking to him like that, but he clung to it now, taking comfort in it. He sucked in a breath and made himself hold it for a moment before releasing it slowly.

He looked up at his father, seeing the worry lines etched into his brow and tried to communicate his need without words.

"It's okay," John said. "We're going to take care of it. You'll be fine."

Sam nodded slowly, looking past his father to Dean who nodded. "Don't worry, Sammy."

"How do we fix this?" John asked the doctor.

The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose. "There are therapies we can try. They have been successful in the past. There's a chance this is just transitory, too. It is not unknown for aphasia to resolve itself over time as the brain heals and creates new pathways."

Brain heals! What the hell had happened to him? The last thing he remembered was talking in the car with Dean on the way to the hospital. He didn't even remember what he had said. They could be the last words he spoke that anyone understood, but he couldn't remember what they were.

"I want to try something," the doctor said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small pad of paper and a pen.

Sam reached for it eagerly and wrote quickly and then held the pad out to his father. "What happened to me?" he asked, repeating the words he had written.

John's brow furrowed as he read over the words and he shook his head as he handed the pad to the doctor. "It's gibberish," he said heavily.

Sam's fists came up and rubbed at his eyes as a tear threatened to creep out from under his careful control. He couldn't speak. He couldn't write. He couldn't make them understand or answer his questions. He was at a loss. He wanted to get out of there. He wanted to wake up and find it had all been a bad dream. He wanted to speak dammit!

"How do we help him?" John asked. "This therapy?"

"Speech therapy. I will arrange for a therapist to come and speak to Sam in the morning. For now, I think it's best that he gets some rest. Is that okay with you, Sam?"

Sam nodded, and waited anxiously for their reaction. They didn't look confused, so he figured that at least that method of communication was open.

"Excellent," the doctor said. "You rest and I will come back in the morning to speak to you."

Sam rolled onto his side and drew up his knees, curling into a ball. He felt a warm hand rest on his shoulder, and he knew someone was trying to comfort him. He wished he could thank them for the effort, but every time he opened his mouth, they looked more distressed, so he stayed silent.

His father stepped into his line of sight and sat down in a chair, cradling his chin in his hand. "We're going to fix this, Sam," he said gently. "Don't you worry. You're going to be fine."

Sam looked into his father's eyes and nodded. He believed John would try, but he had no confidence it would work. He thought it was very possible that he had spoken his last understandable word and he was doomed to spend the rest of his life in silence.

So… what do you think? If you have questions, comments, anything really, drop me a PM or review and I'll get back to you.

Clowns or Midgets xxx

In other news. I wrote a post S9 finale fic called Howling At The Moon (it's a short two-shot) and have today posted the first chapter of its continuation fic — Lamentation In The Veil. If you're interested, it can be found on my profile. Summary: Heaven and Hell are shut tight and Sam's finding that death is not necessarily the end anymore. Post S9 AU.