A/N: And here it is! John Winchester's POV on injuries in the line of duty. I tried to be balanced (though he makes it So hard) and I hope it's a believable look into the mysterious and tortured mind of an obsessed man. I just think that injuries must have been so definitive for the family--they were inevitable, and that kind of trauma has to have some kind of underlying and lasting effect on people. So I also figured, it takes a lot to freak one of them out, which is why the injuries have to be so extreme (again, remember, I know nothing about medicine so if it sounds dumb, that's why). Much thanks to everyone who has taken the time to review--the encouragement means the world to me. And, as always, much thanks to Cati for her support, comments, and awesome beta-reading skills. Thanks for teaching me the beauty of the squee :)

Disclaimer: Not mine--well, the typos are, but the boys and John, sadly, no (not even Sam's arms).

Lessons in Mortality

Part 3: Never Turn Back

John Winchester was tired. Not just a little sleepy, but bone-weary, profoundly exhausted, deep within his soul.

He scrunched his face up as he shifted in the driver's seat, squinting into the fading rays of the sunset that was rapidly vanishing on the horizon. This was supposed to be an off weekend, a chance to recharge their batteries. He could see that Dean wanted it, though he was too obedient to ask for it, and Sam had been extra moody without a reprieve from the continual hunts they seemed to be on lately.

But evil doesn't take vacations.

So when a guy at the local bar started talking about a recent mysterious death at a renowned haunted farm, John had put down his beer and listened.

Two days later, they were off. The research had been simple and easy. The haunting sounded straightforward enough, and the site was only an hour and a half away.

Or so he thought. They'd been driving from the directions John had written down on a bar napkin and two hours had already passed. Dean was unphased, seated in the front studying the landscape. Sam was growing restless.

"Are you sure we didn't take a wrong turn?" Sam ventured.

John glowered. "No."

Sam raised his eyebrows and looked back down at his book.

It didn't matter if John was off course; he would never turn back, he would never allow his sons to see him admit wrong. He had created himself as their fearless leader, to be obeyed and followed without question. Lately he'd retreated deeper into that role, as Sam pulled further and further away.

In general, John regarded his sons with purposeful wariness. He didn't show them emotion; he showed them calm and control. They couldn't be second-guessing orders when all hell broke loose; there'd be no way to keep them safe. The military had taught him that, and the way he figured it, the Winchesters were definitely at war.

He glanced again at the napkin, wondering if the road smeared by the perspiration of his beer mug was actually more important than he remembered. He brought it to his face and studied, trying to make out the blurry lettering.

In the growing dimness and in his distraction, he almost missed the gravel turnoff. As soon as he saw it, he slammed hard on his breaks, turning the wheel sharply to make the turn. The tires squealed and the car pitched and kicked up gravel. Sam looked up in vague interest, holding his book open with his hand and straining to stay upright. Dean merely braced himself against the side of the car.

By the time they pulled up the bumpy drive, twilight had fallen. As John brought the car to a rolling stop, Dean was already opening his door, eager to stretch his legs.

John killed the engine and the family tumbled out.

Dean cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders as he took in the landscape. "Man," he muttered. "Why can't spirits ever haunt mansions in Beverly Hills?"

John ignored the question and went to the trunk.

Sam snorted. "That's the upper echelon of ghost hunting-the ritzy professionals," he said. "You think they're going to let some stranger off the street get rid of their problem or hire some top notch, top secret dude in a suit and a really expensive car?"

Dean took a gun his father offered him, passing it to Sam, then accepting another for himself. "You really think there are celebrity ghost hunters?"

"If there are celebrity ghosts, you'd better believe there are celebrity ghost hunters. People who live there, they're just like that." Sam loaded his gun.

Studying the Victorian farmhouse in front of them, Dean absently began loading his own. Dean said, "Well, I wish we could have some of that action. I'm really tired of haunted farmhouses. I mean, what did farmers do fifty years ago? Kill each other and bury the bones in the back yard?"

John began gathering extra ammunition.

Sam shrugged. "'Most men live lives of quiet desperation.'"

The quotation silenced Dean as he pondered it. He turned to his brother. "What?"

"Henry David Thoreau. Famous American author."

"Dude, you're weird."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

John interrupted their conversation as if it had never happened. "You boys ready?"

Dean immediately came to attention and Sam slouched beside him.

"Simple haunting. We find the bones, keep our eyes open, and get out." John's orders were clipped, straightforward.

Nodding shortly, Dean said, "Can do."

Sam said nothing, barely acknowledged he'd heard his father.

The broodiness in his youngest son made him uneasy; after all, a soldier who didn't communicate was usually one he couldn't trust. He had tried discipline, which had only driven Sam further away. Indifference had met with the same reaction. But Sam did still listen to Dean, still followed his lead, so John let his trust in his oldest trickle down to his youngest.

The house was beyond disrepair. The front steps had mostly rotted away and the handrails leaned precariously to the side. The front porch itself boasted dangerous gaps and wood that had warped and splintered with age and weather. They walked carefully over the holes, treading lightly as the wood groaned in protest.

John led the way, pushing gently on the door.

It opened with the nudge. The beams of their flashlights danced over the walls, revealing more decay.

"Love what they've done to the place," Dean joked.

"It looks nicer than that motel we stayed at last weekend," Sam muttered.

John could sense Dean's desire to respond. "Let's focus," he said shortly.

Dean led the way now, taking point as they moved carefully over the debris. "Any idea where these bones would be?"

"Look in logical places--the basement, the attic, the fireplace. After that we'll start checking the walls and the floor."

"Why didn't they just bury them in the yard?" Sam asked as he stepped over a broken end table, close on Dean's heels.

"Doesn't matter," John said curtly, moving carefully in the rear, watchful of anything that might materialize behind them. "All accounts say that the body was never found and the man responsible never left this house. So we stick to the plan."

"Hey, found a fireplace," Dean said, shining his light on a far wall.

At that moment, John thought he saw a flicker of light off to his left. He turned, studying the darkness for a minute longer. Nothing moved.

Hesitantly, he turned back toward his sons who were moving to the fireplace. The hairs on his neck stood up suddenly and he opened his mouth to call out to them.

Then there was a horrific creaking, a snap, and they were gone. Both of his sons just disappeared.

The crash echoed in the house, an uneasy silence following it. A gaping hole was now open in front of him, rotted boards jutting about the ragged edges.

John stared, unmoving. He blinked once, then again, watching as the dust settled.

They were gone.

Conscious thought finally sunk in and he came to life. "Dean? Sam?" he yelled, rushing to the edge of the hole.

The floorboards moaned, protesting under the strain of John's weight. He backed up, but strained his neck to look down.

"Dean?" he called again. "Sam? Are you alright?"

There was no response and it took a moment for John to distinguish between the darkened objects piled below. He shone his flashlight down, searching for movement. "Sammy? Dean?"

Then he saw it, a glimpse of a white t-shirt. He redirected his beam and saw the outline of a body. Dean.

"Dean!" he yelled.

Flicking the light to the side, he caught a glimpse of more human flesh. Sammy.

They had landed mere inches apart, both on their backs. Their outstretched hands were practically touching.

"Boys, talk to me," he said, flashing the light at their faces. He swore.

With a shaking breath, he willed himself to leave the sight of his sons, knowing he was no good to them a floor above.

The stairs were in better shape than expected, and after testing the first two cautiously, he raced down the rest. The air became dank as he went down, cool in the summer evening.

He moved instinctually. Although the terrain was foreign, he skirted the scattered debris in the basement, moving to where he had last seen his sons. "Dean? Sammy?"

His flashlight again fell across the whiteness of flesh. My sons.

Dean had connected solidly with the concrete floor. Nothing had broken his fall. He was unconscious, but showed no other signs of injury.

John knelt next to his oldest, placing a hand gently on his neck. "Dean?" he called, feeling the thready pulse. "Dean."

His firstborn didn't as much as twitch. Carefully, he scanned for injuries, without jostling his son, all too aware of the risk of spinal injuries. "Dean? You have to wake up for me, son."

Dean, usually his obedient soldier, did not show any outward signs of life. Then he saw the blood--lots of blood--forming a puddle on the floor around Dean's head. Despite everything he knew about not moving fall victims, he knew this amount of blood loss was even more serious.

The blood was seeping from a deep gash in the back of Dean's head. It was a relief to see no gray matter. It wasn't perfect news, but it was something.

Carefully rolling Dean back, he moved to his younger son.

John swallowed bile. Sam had to be dead. He had to be. All he could see was blood, wet stickiness everywhere, and the rusty metal rod that grew unnaturally from Sam's upper torso.

Unlike Dean, Sam was awake, but much more clearly in trouble. Sam had landed on a low pile of dirt, whose purpose John couldn't bring himself to imagine. The dirt was more forgiving, saving Sam from the serious head injury that Dean had clearly suffered. Small miracles.

However, the rod that had been in the dirt was nothing to scoff at. The amount of blood turned John's stomach, an unfamiliar sensation. Looking closer, he could clearly see the metal rod protruding from Sam's chest. Blood had already covered Sam's t-shirt, pooling steadily below the teenager.

Two wide, hazel eyes stared at him. "Dad?" Sam's mouth was open, gaping in shock and pain.

"Sammy…"

Sam's hand grappled at his chest, trying to feel out the pain. His eyes showed little comprehension. "Dad?" he asked again, blinking hard as his face contorted. "Hurts."

John could not help but stare at the rod in Sam's chest before grabbing his son's hand, stilling its sluggish movements. "I know, Sammy. I know."

His baby was trembling; suddenly John missed the defiance that had defined Sam lately.

"…Dean…?" The word was little more than a strained whisper, but it carried so much emotional depth.

"You guys have sure gotten yourself into a mess this time," John said, trying to lighten the mood, to assuage the fear in his son's eyes.

But the joke didn't register in Sam's face, and he swallowed it back guiltily. "You've both taken a fall, Sammy, but I'm going to get you out here, okay?" he said with a nod.

Sam's eyes followed the nod. "Okay," he said as readily as he was able.

John smiled slightly, touched by the trust he still found in Sam's eyes. Trust that when things were bad, his father could still save him.

He had to save them. His mind raced as he fathomed how. What do I do?

That wasn't a question that usually ran through his mind. Usually he acted and reacted, no thought necessary. Injuries always required momentary analysis. He could judge the severity of the wound, see if he could treat it himself, and either act accordingly or bundle the boys up and get them to a busy hospital--one that didn't have time to dig too deeply into its patients' histories.

Over the years, John had treated broken bones and sewn stitches. There had been a few concussions, but rest and ice had covered the majority of their ailments. Most cuts and bruises had been minor.

But as he squatted in his cold, dark basement, he realized that this was beyond his capabilities. His fingers slick with his sons' blood, he fumbled for his cell phone, buried in the pocket of his jeans. He tried not to look at his sons while he called, tried not to see Dean's head tilted to the side, tried not to see the unnatural protrusion from Sam's chest. .

He shivered as he talked to the operator. His voice was raw when he hung up, hoping he had the address right, hoping they moved fast.

Focus, John, focus on the boys.

Closing his eyes, he readied himself, reminding himself of his first aid training. He took a deep breath and he moved back toward his sons.

He was drawn to the son he could make eye contact with. That contact anchored him, solidified him, kept him together.

But as he turned back to Sam, his hopes sank deeper. Sam's eyes, usually so vibrant and evocative, were dull and empty.

"Sam? You've got to stay awake, Sammy, do you hear me? Stay awake." He was begging now, pleading to not be left alone.

Blood welled up suddenly, seeping from Sam's mouth.

"Dad?" Sam's voice was small, a child again. His teeth were stained red.

John's breathing was nearly as ragged as Sam's. He shook as he once again took Sam's hand and brought it close to him. "Sammy, shh…don't talk. It's okay."

Blood now covered Sam's chin, running down his cheek. His youngest son looked at him desperately, begging him for reprieve, for salvation, for anything. The teenager trembled violently as he fell victim to shock. "Daddy?"

With his free hand, John touched Sam's cheek. "You have to hang on for me, Sammy. You hang on."

Sam had rebelled so much lately, that John wasn't really surprised when Sam held his gaze a moment long before his eyes fell shut and his body fell lax, his head rolling slightly into John's hand. Sam's long and bloody fingers unloosened around his father's hand.

"Sam?" John called. "Sammy?"

He hit Sam's check, harder than he intended, and his son's head rolled.

"Sammy?" he yelled now, although he knew his son couldn't hear him. Though unconscious, he could still hear his son's labored attempts at breathing. "Please, Sammy." He turned desperately to Dean, hoping to find some response from one of his sons.

But Dean was still prone, head turned away in the darkness. He missed Dean's smile, his quick jokes, his ability to be exactly what his father needed. But Dean needed him now; Sammy needed him too. They were still his sons, and he was still their father. He wished he could make it go away with a band aid and a pat on the head.

Not this time. This was not something he could fix.

For the first time in 18 years, John Winchester panicked. As long as one of the boys was conscious, he could retain his composure; as long as there was someone watching for his lead, he could lead without question, without doubt. But both of his sons were unconscious, lying prone on the basement floor, both hovering far too close to death. His breathing began to hitch uncontrollably and he found himself falling backwards, hard. The world began to gray, dimming as he tried to catch his breath.

Mary, what do I do?

Things went black momentarily and when he opened his eyes he was looking up at the hole in the ceiling.

What a long way to fall.

He sat up, hoping it was a dream, a nightmare, a hallucination, anything but reality.

Dean had not moved and Sam was losing color as the pool of blood around him grew. He was whiter than a ghost. The thought made John laugh bitterly; after all, he should know.

His sons were dying.

No, no, no.

He looked up, beseechingly. "No," he pleaded. "Haven't you taken enough?"

The house was silent and there was no answer except his own echo. For a moment, anger coursed through him and a guttural yell ripped through him. It ended with a sob, and he couldn't manage much more than a groan. "Please."

A moment passed. Then another. Maybe more. Time had no meaning.

Then, through his grief, John heard it. Sirens.

He sat up, bewildered.

Yelling could be heard from above. He wanted to answer, to bring help where it was needed, but he found himself unable to speak.

A racket sounded from the stairs. John stared as two medics bounded into view, carrying a backboard and their gear. One was older, a woman. The other was young, a black man Dean's age. The older one went toward the boys; the younger looked at him.

"Sir, are you hurt?" he asked. "Sir?"

John shook his head distantly, half perplexed by his presence. "No."

"Are you sure? You're bleeding," he said, motioning toward his legs.

Like a child, John looked at his pants. Shakily he moved to stand, accepting the hand the medic offered him. "It's not mine," he said. His knees felt stiff from kneeling, and his jeans stuck to him, wet with blood.

"Okay." The younger medic looked at him carefully, gauging his physical and mental state. "We're going to take care of them," he said, his voice even and slow.

John just nodded, stepping away farther.

The medic glanced at him one more time before joining his partner with his sons.

The older medic, a woman in her late 30s, looked up from her work. "Sir, what are your sons' names?"

"Dean," he said, nodding at her. Then motioning to the other, "Sam."

"Sir, has Dean been conscious at any point since the fall?"

John just shook his head.

The medic tried to show no expression, but he could see her cringe.

John felt his breathing tighten as he watched them work, stepping away again. We shouldn't be here, this shouldn't be happening. They were rolling Dean onto a backboard, stabilizing his neck in a collar. This isn't happening.

More noise came from above as more emergency personnel arrived. John simply watched as the action unfolded, feeling as though he wasn't connected to his body.

The woman medic was leaning close to Dean, calling his name. John could see the way her ponytail fell over her shoulder, dangling in Dean's face. He could see her lips move in slow motion, falling mutely on his son's still face.

He watched as a new team of medics was examining the rod in Sam's chest, kneeling to try to see where the rod came from, how they could move Sam. They were talking quickly, loudly, but John could only see his son's body jostle slightly as they worked, the t-shirt sticking awkwardly to his chest.

How is this happening?

He'd been careful. He'd be thorough. He'd researched every detail, every angle, every caveat. He'd been prepared.

Denial raced through him and he stepped farther away.

No.

Dean had to wake up. Dean had to crack a joke.

No.

Sam had to smile, brood, rebel, anything.

No.

A face materialized before him and he could see it yelling at him.

Mary?

He blinked and stared harder and the face focused. The young medic was looking at him. "We're going to transport Dean to the hospital. We're still working on moving Sam, and then we'll get him out on the helicopter. You can't do anything more here, sir. An officer would be more than happy to take you to the hospital to be there for your sons."

John thanked him without thinking, trailing behind as they carried Dean's stretcher up the stairs. He followed them to the ambulance, noticing how pale Dean looked in the macabre flashing emergency lights. As the first set of medics opened the back, John leaned over his son, reaching out and almost touching him. He wanted to say something, encourage Dean, but nothing seemed right. Dean couldn't hear him anyway, but John didn't want to think about that.

Someone kept him from climbing in after his son and he watched desolately as the ambulance pulled away, jerking down the road. Please, help my son.

"Sir? What's your name, sir?"

John blinked, the flashing lights overwhelming him. "John. John Winchester." The words were out before he realized what he'd said.

"Mr. Winchester, I know this is a difficult time, but we need to ask what happened here tonight." The officer held his pen primed over his notepad.

"We were…we were looking at the property," he said. "I don't know. We were...looking to buy. We wanted to see if anything inside was...salvageable. And then the floor--it just--fell away."

"I'm very sorry, sir," he said with an apologetic smile, sensing John's distress. "It's just a formality, you understand. We can do this later." He flipped his notebook shut. "Let's get you to the hospital."

John followed wordlessly, wondering distantly if the cops would mind his bloody clothes in their backseat.

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He didn't feel the bumps on the dirt road. He didn't see the stars as they twinkled in the night sky. He didn't notice how long the trip was. All he could do was stare out at the blackness as it passed him, trying to remember.

Sam had a math test on Monday, he remembered distantly. He'd brought his books in the car. He'd studied on the way up, even as Dean had tried to distract him. He would hate to miss that test.

Dean had a date tomorrow night. His oldest had tried to hide it from him, but the girl had called to confirm when Dean had been out. She had sounded pretty. They were moving soon, so John couldn't see the harm in one date. His son was 22 after all.

He had a job interview on Monday--security, good pay. It was time for a new town, a new place, a new home.

He blinked and realized that time had passed. He didn't recognize the scenery. He didn't know long they'd been driving.

He blinked again and saw the hospital. The officer was talking to him, motioning to him. He opened the door and followed.

They didn't take him to see his sons. Instead he found himself in a waiting room, too shell-shocked to demand answers. He filled out forms, replied to questions in monosyllables, and waited.

Then there was a doctor in front of him, one who looked too young, too petite. "Mr. Winchester?"

He looked up, his bewildered look an answer in itself.

"Mr. Winchester, my name's Dr. Cavanaugh. I'm the doctor who treated your son, Dean."

That tidbit registered and John scrambled to his feet, suddenly aware of his surroundings. How long had he been waiting there? "Yes?"

"I'm afraid the blow to Dean's head is quite serious," the doctor said slowly, carefully.

Normally John would have snapped at her for treating him so childishly, but he couldn't bring himself to speak.

"He has a skull fracture, and there is pressure building up in his brain."

Both of the boys had suffered concussions before, and pressure in the brain was always a concern. But John could sense this time was different.

"There doesn't seem to be any bleeding at this time, but if the pressure doesn't go down, we may have to operate."

"Operate?"

"Relieve the pressure," Dr. Cavanaugh explained. "But we're going to monitor him for now. I do think you need to be aware, though, that no matter what happens, your son may have sustained permanent damage."

"Permanent how?"

Dr. Cavanaugh licked her lips, taking a breath. "There's no way to tell the extent of the damage to his brain until he wakes up. He may be fine, or he may experience other setbacks. Right now he's in a coma."

The words hit John like a blow and suddenly his legs couldn't support him. The doctor had a steady hand on him quickly, though, and he let himself be lowered to a chair.

"It's too early to tell if it's permanent," she said gently. "Dean has been transferred up into intensive care where we're closely monitoring his condition. Why don't you take a moment, then a nurse will take you to go see him."

John nodded wearily. "What about Sam?" he asked. "How's Sammy?"

"I don't know the condition of your other son, but I will find someone who does," the doctor assured him.

John didn't acknowledge her, didn't even see her go, just looked at the floor, feeling lost.

Now was the time he would offer the scathing review of the mistakes. He had delivered so many to his sons, passed the time in so many waiting rooms. You should have known better--that house looked decrepit. Why didn't you pull back when you saw the give in the boards? How could you be so reckless, so stupid, so blind? Oversights get people hurt, gets them…

He didn't want to finish his own line of thought. Usually he said it as a threat, but now it was so real.

…gets them killed.

Swearing, he rubbed a hand over his tired face.

"Mr. Winchester?" a voice said.

He looked up and saw a 30-something nurse standing in front of him. "Would you like to see your son now?"

John merely nodded.

At first all John could see was the bandage, the pile of white wrapped securely around his head. The bulk of gauze was in the back, making Dean's head lay somewhat to the side.

The monitors didn't seem worth noticing; he'd seen them all before. Electrodes stemmed from his son's body. His complexion looked washed out, paled by the off-white hospital gown.

The worst part, though, was how passive Dean looked. Dean was obedient to a fault--but never submissive. That was one of his son's strengths--his ability to balance his selfhood with his self-sacrifice, his capacity to think on his feet and follow through with a plan. Dean--the good little soldier.

Dean was his mirror. Dean reflected what John needed to see. He knew he used Dean as a crutch, his go-to man, his pick-me-up. He needed Sam, too, but more as a motivation, someone to protect, someone to save the world for.

He hated suddenly how willingly Dean would die in the line of duty, without question or remorse. He had molded his son into the person he needed him to be, and Dean hadn't even thought twice about it. And look where it's gotten you.

He almost fell into the chair. He could say nothing else, he couldn't move. He just sat, watching his son's eyelids, hoping to see movement.

It could have been minutes or it could have been hours. The door opened.

"Mr. Winchester?"

Heard that a lot recently. John squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to avoid reality.

Giving up the fantasy that this was a dream, John looked up and saw another scrub-clad doctor standing behind him. He didn't recognize this one, and it was an African American man, in his late 30s.

"Could we speak outside?"

John gave his oldest child one last glance and left the room.

Once they were clear from the quiet activity of the ICU ward, the doctor took a deep breath. "My name's Dr. Wendell. I was the lead surgeon operating on your son, Sam."

John gave a start as he realized he had momentarily forgotten about Sam, overewhelmed as he was by Dean's condition. The awareness struck him like a blow. "How is he?"

The doctor paused, John waited. "It was a difficult surgery. The rod did extensive damage to Sam's lung. It also severely broke several of his ribs. We had to spend a lot of tracking down bits of splintered bone. We think we got all of it, and we think we were able to stop the bleeding and repair what we could of his lung. He was intubated in the ER and we've hooked him to a ventilator. His lungs won't be able to support his breathing, not for awhile, and we'll have to see how the right lung starts regaining its capacity to know the long term effects of the damage.

"Sam's condition is very serious. The risk of infection is high, and with injuries to the lungs, we're always concerned about fluid, maybe pneumonia." The doctor paused. "The next few days are very critical in Sam's recovery."

"Can I see him?" the words were out of John's mouth before the doctor could continue. Sam had been alone far too long.

Dr. Wendell looked skeptical. "You need to understand the severity of your son's condition. He's a very sick young man right now."

"Can I see him?" John asked again, more insistently.

"Not at the moment. He's still in recovery. Once he's moved to ICU, you'll be able to spend limited time with him."

John couldn't think of anything to say. Sammy . . .

"You need to get some rest, Mr. Winchester. Your sons are in good hands. You can count on that."

Dr. Wendell sounded reassuring, but John barely heard him. "Thank you," he muttered and turned back toward Dean's room. As he navigated the ward, though, he recognized Dr. Cavanaugh moving to intercept him.

"Mr. Winchester," she said. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Leave?"

"Yes, Dean is resting right now and visiting hours are over. Why don't you go home, get some sleep--"

"I don't want to go home, get some sleep, I want to see my son." He attempted to move passed her.

She moved to block him. "We can't let you do that right now."

John looked at her in fury. "He's my son. Where else am I supposed to be?"

She nodded steadily. "I know how you must feel. I promise, Dean's condition is stable. You aren't going to do him any good by staying here and exhausting yourself--"

"Who are you to tell me what's good for my sons?"

"Mr. Winchester, we can get you set up in the hospital hotel--"

"You get yourself a room and leave me alone!" he snapped, trying to move past her again.

She stood her ground, and several other nurses and doctors had gathered around. "Mr. Winchester, you need to calm down."

The crowd made John more defiant. "No! I don't think I want to calm down! I just want to see my son!"

Dr. Cavanaugh held her hand out in placation. "I know, but you have to-"

"I don't have to do anything!" He moved to push past her again, this time more physically.

The doctor stumbled, which was enough to incite the gathering crowd to restrain him. Strong arms were around him, and as he tried to pull away, he realized just how weary he actually was. But he did not admit defeat and raged against them until he felt a sharp sting in his leg and things began floating and he drifted into oblivion.

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He woke up to the sound of a heart monitor. Rolling his head, he groaned. Hospital?

Opening his eyes, he saw the IV in his hand. He grimaced and pulled it out. Looking down, he saw that he was still fully dressed--no hospital gown. That meant…

"Sam, Dean," he said, shooting out of bed, only to be met with a wave of dizziness that sent him back down.

A nurse came in and smiled brightly at him. "Good to see you're awake."

John rubbed his tongue over the inside of the mouth, trying to clear away the cottony feeling. "You drugged me."

She checked his chart and glanced at him. "Appears so."

As much as he wanted to shove her smile down her throat, John remembered the events from last night. "Where are my sons? How's Dean? Sammy?"

"I just got on; I'd have to check," the nurse said, jotting some notes. "Why don't I put your IV back in, and--"

"No," John said flatly, pushing himself up again. His head spun momentarily but he remained upright. "I need to see my sons."

She protested as he moved to the door. "Sir, you really should lay back down."

"You going to drug me again?"

"Not unless there's a need for it." She said it pleasantly enough, but John could hear the threat laced underneath.

John forced a smile. "I'm fine. I just want to go check on my sons."

"Look, just wait here, and the doctor will be in to talk to you shortly," she said.

"No, I need to see them. Dean's in a coma, Sam--Sam just got through surgery. I need to know," he said, moving unsteadily toward the door.

"Sir, please--"

The struggle was thwarted when Dr. Cavanaugh came through the door. She smiled broadly. "I see you're awake," she said. "And calmer, I hope."

John did not return her friendliness. "Where are my sons?"

Dr. Cavanaugh grew serious, nodding to the nurse who excused herself. "Please, sit down, Mr. Winchester."

"I don't want to sit down," John hissed at her.

She sighed, collecting herself. "Dean's condition is unchanged. He's still in a coma. However, his vitals are strong and stable. We're closely monitoring the pressure in his head and we've consulted a neurosurgeon on his condition. It's a waiting game now."

Struggling to keep his breathing even, John clenched his teeth. "What about Sam?"

"While I am not treating Sam, I did take the liberty of looking into his condition. He was cleared from recovery late last night and is currently in the ICU. He's still on the ventilator and sedated. You'll be able to see him this morning. Dean, too."

"Where are they?" John asked, standing to move past her.

She stopped him, her hand out as a simple request. "I'll take you to them in a moment. I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry about last night. You needed your rest--"

"Just take care of my sons," John interrupted. "I can take care of myself."

She looked like she wanted to say something but sighed instead. "Of course," she said. "I'll have a nurse take you to see Sam, and then we'll get you in to see Dean. Okay?"

John eyed her with distrust, but nodded.

After introducing him to a nurse, Dr. Cavanaugh returned to her rounds. John followed the attentively, unconsciously mapping out the hallways, noting restrooms, nurses' stations, vending machines. The nurse paused before she motioned to a room.

"Sam's condition is critical," she explained. "He's going to look bad--hooked up to a lot of machines. You need to be prepared for that."

John would've laughed had Sam's condition not frightened him so much. After everything he'd seen, a few machines weren't about to unnerve him.

The nursed looked hesitant, uncertain if her warnings had truly gotten through to the emotionally unhinged father. But she gave up her fight, and let John inside.

Despite his familiarity with injuries and hospitals, he realized the nurse's warnings had been valid. Sam looked terrible. His youngest son look buried under the mess of equipment that surrounded him and the leads that led away from his body.

Moving closer, he saw that Sam's complexion had not improved from the basement floor--he still lacked all semblance of color. Dark circles smudged under his eyes. His hair had been hastily pushed to the side, making his son look younger than he was. He's only 18.

It was the tube from his mouth that made John sink to the chair. He had seen the boys in various states of consciousness but never unable to breathe on their own. It seemed wrong--for all of Sam's need to define himself, to break away, he was dependent on a machine to live.

John couldn't move, he couldn't think. He just sat by his son's side, watching the mechanical rise and fall of his youngest son's chest.

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When the nurse told him he had to leave, he would have fought her. Fortunately for her, she had the right bargaining chip: she offered to take him to Dean's room.

"Dean's condition hasn't changed," she said, and he could tell it was a rote speech she had perfected. "Dean may not be able to respond to you, but he still needs you there. He may look bad, and it may not seem like you're getting through. But some studies suggest that coma patients do respond positively when they hear the voice of a loved one.

It was clichéd, but well intentioned. John thanked her, and went in.

Dean had not changed. The bandage was still wrapped securely about his head and the monitors beeped and hummed in the same cadence as the night before. And Dean still had the same almost-peaceful look on his face. But the stillness was unnatural, a false calm, and it unnerved him.

He took a seat by Dean's bedside, trying to look at his son without seeing his helplessness.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I should have kept this from happening."

The apology had no effect on Dean. John shifted uncomfortably.

"Bad leadership always falls back on the men," he said. "I should have kept you safe. You shouldn't have taken a fall because of my inability to prepare."

The words sounded hollow, flat in the sterile room. He leaned back in his seat with a sigh. Dean was never much on apologies anyway; he understood blame and guilt--apologies between them were superfluous.

Instead John chose to sit. Some of his favorite memories of his son were Dean's silent presence as he stood beside him. They shared a silent understanding, a bond that had been established the night John put Sammy in Dean's arms and told him to not look back. Dean had never looked back, never questioned orders. That steadiness didn't need words, it simply was.

Dean had become a man that night, more a man than he usually was. Dean was the responsible one, really, no matter how cavalierly he acted. Dean was the one who made sure there was food in the refrigerator, who made sure Sammy got to and from school.

In return, John had granted his son his utmost respect, his total trust. Dean was allowed to clean the guns, take point on hunts, go out for the weekends. He didn't have to tell his son how proud he was of him; he showed it to him by responsibilities and freedoms that he granted him.

He would have stayed there forever, but his legs slowly began to ache and his stomach turned hungrily. He tried to remember when he had last eaten. When the math became too difficult, he stood, giving Dean one last hearty look before exiting the room

John had barely shut the door, when a man approached him.

"I'm Dr. McClintock," the man introduced himself with a perfunctory extension of his hand.

John took it slowly.

He shook with a mild smile. "Dr. Cavanaugh called me down," the doctor explained.

"My sons are still unconscious," John replied quickly.

Dr. McClintock looked uninterested. "She called me to talk to you, Mr. Winchester. You've been through extensive trauma recently, and she is worried with how you're handling it."

"Well, I appreciate the concern, but-"

"But nothing. You haven't eaten, have you? Of course you haven't. Let me buy you breakfast."

As if on cue, John's stomach grumbled. They were short on cash, and he hadn't even started to think about how he was going to afford the hospital bills. "Okay."

An elevator trip and a cafeteria line later, John was seated uneasily across from the doctor, chomping voraciously on a helping of bacon and eggs.

"So," the doctor began casually. "What were you doing with your sons?"

John eyed him warily. He had dealt with too many psychiatrists, social workers, and cops to trust this one. "We were looking into buying the property. Rebuild it. A new place to call home. We've been on the road a lot; I thought it might be nice for the boys to have a place to settle."

"So you took them at night and broke in? To look around?"

"Do you have something you're trying to say?"

Dr. McClintock cocked his head. "You have more defense than grief right now."

John stood up angrily, his chair clattering. "I don't have to sit here and take this."

"Mr. Winchester, please, sit down. You haven't finished your breakfast."

The invitation was infuriatingly polite, clearly non-confrontational. John's half-filled stomach convinced him to stay.

"I just think it's interesting," Dr. McClintock said, "the way people respond to dire situations. Denial is almost always a part of that--the inability to see one's own role in it. But self-blame is soon to follow--the inability to see how outside forces work against you. What people don't see is the way that both interact. Where are you at, Mr. Winchester?"

John stiffened, sensing a game of blame approaching him. He went on the defensive. "Look, what do you want to say? That I was negligent? I shouldn't have had my sons there? I should have looked twice before walking out onto that floor? Fine. You're right. I probably should have thought that one through a little better," John conceded. "But if that makes me unfit to be their father, you're wrong. I have spent my entire life protecting those boys, raising those boys-"

"No one is denying that, Mr. Winchester," Dr. McClintock said easily. "But what are you protecting them from?"

John stopped, his angry rant deterred. "Excuse me?"

"What are you protecting them from?" the doctor repeated. "Though we can't find much in their medical records, your sons are covered from head to toe with scars. These boys have been through quite a bit. Public records show that they've transferred schools countless times. Sometimes it's not what we're doing that we need to question, but why."

John simply stared, eyes narrowed, his heart beginning to pound.

"I believe you love your sons, Mr. Winchester. Most parents do. But that doesn't make you a good parent. Too many parents believe in control, thinking they can turn their children into who they want them to be, that they can control the way the world interacts with them. It's a fallacy, usually an innocent one. But you have to face up to the fact that the bottom has fallen out of your world. You can blame yourself, or you can blame everything else. But there comes a time when you just have to wonder if all that blame is going to get you anywhere."

Dr. McClintock let his statement stand. John didn't reply.

"It was good meeting you, Mr. Winchester," the doctor said as he stood. "Think about what I said. You can find me on the sixth floor if you need something."

John watched him go, his distaste evident. He scorned the slight man in his brown tie. He was convinced that only pitiful people went into psychiatry--the doctors who couldn't handle blood, the people who couldn't face their own problems so they faced everyone else's.

There comes a time when you just have to wonder.

No, he didn't have to wonder. He knew himself, he knew his boys, he knew what he was doing.

It was his fault, it was his fault for not being prepared, for not thinking ahead. He'd let evil catch them off-guard.

Where is the blame going to get you?

It would make him stronger, it would make him better. He had to be better. He would keep this from happening again. He didn't let himself consider the fact that there might not be a second chance.

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John was tired of waiting. He had sat for as long as he could, until the energy in his legs was unbearable. Then he had taken to pacing, back and forth, back and forth, across the length of the waiting room.

They had asked him to leave his sons for awhile, to get some air, while the doctors did their work. John had consented reluctantly, not eager to get into another tussle that ended with a drug-induced nap.

He had nowhere to go though, no one to call. So he took up residence in the waiting room, where his energy seemed to fester and his thoughts twisted uneasily through the caverns of his mind.

He harassed a doctor for news, but had received a bland reply.

"Look, Mr. Winchester, at this point, no news is good news for both of your sons," the doctor told him. "Why don't you grab some coffee and take a seat while we finish our morning rounds. Then I will find you and update you on Dean's condition."

It was a white lie, and John knew that he would have to wait for Dr. Cavanaugh or Dr. Wendell for any real news.

Though the room was fully and noisy, John was alone with his thoughts. He thought about Dean and Sam, the way they acted, the way they were.

They balanced each other. When one was weak, the other was strong. When one fell, the other picked him. John had never realized how much he had relied on that.

He had never faced this alone. Not ever. When Mary died, Dean had been there, Sam had been there. They were there to hug when he needed reassurance. They were there to laugh when he needed a pick-me-up. They were there to cry when he needed to grieve. They were there to yell at when he needed someone to blame.

He so wanted someone to blame.

The boys took it so well. They stood there and nodded and let him berate them for all the mistakes that they couldn't help but make.

They're just children, John, he could hear Mary chiding.

But they needed to learn, just as much as he needed to vent. They needed to learn responsibility, control, accuracy. Mistakes for the Winchesters rarely ended well. And he could not lose anything else.

Accidents happen, Mary used to tell him with a smile.

John could never truly stay angry, not even when the mistakes ended up in hospitals. He just needed to find the reason, to feel in control. The boys just needed to learn their lessons. If everyone was going to stay alive and well, they needed to be stronger. They had learned not to cry years ago, even during the waiting room rebukes, which were always the hardest. Now they took it all with a stiff upper lip and a "Yes, sir." He was making them strong; he was helping them survive.

But sometimes, especially in the waiting rooms, he wanted to hug them, hold them, because he knew their guilt. The guilt of being unprepared, the guilt of failing

Waiting rooms were always lonely, but John Winchester had never felt as alone as he did that night.

He had spent the last 18 years depending on his sons to fill the emptiness of his heart. Their presence made living worth it, made staying sober meaningful, made vengeance worth pursuing. They were the only reasons he was still alive - not just because of the times they had saved his life, but because they were the last thing that kept him tethered to this world.

Children aren't here to make us happy. We're here for them. Don't you see, John?

But this was how he could keep them safe. And none of them could be happy until Mary's was avenged, until her death was requited.

They couldn't very well be happy if they were dead, though, John.

And he worried that if one son died, the other would as well, because they didn't exist apart from one another. All the other times when one son had been laid up, no matter how bad, he had trusted that the child would pull through, if for no other reason than because his brother willed it to be true.

But now, both of his sons' lives were hanging in the balance. Without the one to pull the other back, John feared he would lose them both.

He was surprised suddenly by how much he was trembling. The room suddenly seemed too large, too busy. There were too many people, coming and going, yelling and whispering. The amount of life unnerved him.

Shakily, he stood and fled to the nearest bathroom. Standing at the sink, he turned on the water and splashed some on his face.

No parents should have to live this. Most parents didn't. So why him? Why his boys?

He felt sudden nauseated. Stumbling, he fell to his knees in a stall. He retched as the answer flooded him.

Most parents didn't have their sons out hunting demons and spirits. Most parents told their kids to do their homework, be home before curfew. Most parents went basketball games, teacher conferences, track meets.

His lunch emptied into the toilet.

He had raised his sons hunt to protect themselves, to shield them from the forces out there. Nothing would blindside the Winchester family. Not again.

But tonight the whole bottom had fallen out and he had no one to blame but himself.

He barely felt the tears.

Mary, what have I done?

Dean was in a coma--severe intracranial pressure.

Sam was on a ventilator--extensive internal damage.

Oh God, what have I done?

He sat on the tiled floor, his knees to his chest and his back against the back of the stall door, letting the question, letting the guilt echo through him.

How could he have been so blind? He couldn't help but think that this was his punishment somehow; this was his penance for robbing his boys of a childhood, of a life to call their own. He had turned them into what he wanted and now it he could lose them, both of them. He had spent a lifetime preparing them for everything evil he thought they might face. He had spent a lifetime preparing them to die young, die painfully, to sacrifice themselves for the sake of vengeance.

Mary, I did it for you.

He could see her, shaking her head, smiling a sad, sympathetic smile. No, John, this has never been for me.

But it was all he had to give. He had always believed in his ability to fix things. He had let Mary die 18 years ago and he would not surrendered anything else. As long as the boys were alive, he would fight for them. There was no alternative.

He thought about making a deal with God, not that he believed God would agree to his terms, but he thought about it anyway--promising a drastic change of lifestyle, getting the boys straightened up, on their own, letting go of vengeance in exchange for the miracle of his sons' lives.

He laughed. The real miracle would be his proffered 180. He could almost hear God laughing, If you can do that, then you can fix this without my help.

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His convictions were shattered when Dr. Cavanaugh approached him, a clipboard in hand and a grim expression on her face.

"Mr. Winchester, I'd like to have your consent to perform the operation on Dean."

"You want to drill holes in my son's head?"

The doctor looked sympathetic to his crass phrasing. "If the pressure isn't relieved, there could be permanent damage. He could die."

John looked away, avoiding tears by sheer willpower. "It's the only way?"

"It's his best chance."

Meeting the doctor's eyes grimly, John nodded, took the clipboard and signed away his control.

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John had waited with Sam as long as he could, hoping for news about Dean. He needed to be closer, though so he resigned himself to the surgery waiting room. He was out of criticism for himself and low on anger for the world. So he waited, feeling as bleak as the blue-gray nothingness of the walls.

The neurosurgeon had assured him that it went as well, and that Dean was doing as well as could be expected. John nodded, though he had no idea what could be expected at all. He spent the night half-asleep in a plastic chair, lingering somewhere between his worried thoughts and nightmares.

It was Dr. Cavanaugh who told him that Dean had been moved to a room. His condition was remarkably stable, but disconcertingly unimproved. She stood in front of him just outside his eldest son's room.

"The pressure has gone down," Dr. Cavanaugh said softly. "But he hasn't shown any signs of returning to consciousness. Obviously his brain has been through significant trauma, but we are concerned. The longer he remains unconscious, the less likely he is to ever wake."

John bit the inside of his lip. He would not let this woman see him cry, not again. "Can I see him?"

Dr. Cavanaugh looked like she wanted to say more, to explain his condition more, but she relented. "Use the call button if you need anything."

John nodded, but as he took his post at Dean's side, he knew that the call button would never get the him the things he really wanted back.

The bandages around Dean's head were thicker, more obtuse now, and John tried not to notice that Dean's hair had been shaved away. He'll be angry about that one.

The thought made him laugh, Dean bemoaning his physical appearance. But the laugh choked in his throat, as he looked at his son again.

Dean looked exactly the same. He had yet to change from that same lifeless state that John had found him in on the basement floor. Dean never stood still for that long--his son was expressive in his facial expressions, always conning girls out of smiles, always charming bartenders out of drinks.

Dean was always fighting, always in a state of flux. Dean even joked that he planned to go out in a blaze of glory--if death ever caught up with him, he'd go down taking everything evil down with him. He'd flash that cocky smile, and John believed him.

"Oh, Dean," he finally said softly. "Come on, son. Not like this."

Not by some freak accident, falling through a floor. His son couldn't die like this. And his son couldn't lose himself, who he was, just because a floor was too weak to hold him. He had to believe that Dean was still in there, that Dean would wake up, be okay, be the soldier he needed him to be.

"Please, Dean," he whispered, grasping his son's hand. "Not like this."

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John didn't think he'd ever be grateful for Dean's lack of improvement until he saw how much worse Sam seemed to look. The teenager seemed to shrink, appearing less and less whole every time John checked on him.

But Sam did move, sometimes, small shifts that reassured John that Sam was still in there somewhere. Somehow that made him feel more helpless--to see his son drifting below consciousness and to have no way to coax him out.

Normally he would resort to orders and threats, but given Sam's rebellious nature, he didn't want to risk it. Instead he remembered that trust in Sam's eyes when he was impaled on the basement floor, the implicit trust of a little boy in his father.

"I've got you, Sammy," he murmured. "I'll take care of you."

Sam didn't show that he heard him, but John felt better saying it.

But John was tired of sitting by his sons' bedsides. He was tired of all the apologies he couldn't bring himself to say, all the prayers he couldn't bring himself to speak. He was tired of being immobile, of being passive. And he was tired of waiting for something else to happen.

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The sky was dark and drawn low, rain clouds sagging across the cityscape. It had sprinkled off and on all day, occasionally dousing the streets with smatterings of rain.

John Winchester's life had become a stifling pattern of migrating throughout the hospital. The nurses all knew him well by now, both tired of his dogged presence and interference and sympathetic to his inability to do anything else. He knew the schedules of Dr. Wendell and Dr. Cavanaugh, as well as their less amiable counterparts, Dr. Everson and Dr. Hammar.

He usually slept in Dean's room, as he was in a lesser restrictive ward and the nurses didn't frown on it quite so negatively. After whispering a few curt but well intentioned phrases into his eldest son's bandaged head and hearing the morning report from his nurse (usually Kathy, whom he liked, and she would remember that he liked his coffee black as night), he made his way the ICU, from which Sam had yet to be released from. Dana, the head nurse there, seemed to eye John suspiciously, as though his continual presence by his son's side was out of line. John didn't care much what she thought, and she seemed to sense that his determination would not be deterred, so she tolerated his presence.

It was Caitlin, the perky nurse in her 20s, who made sure he got showered and had breakfast. He liked the way she treated him, and he liked the way she treated Sam. She would whisper to him when she checked his bandages, offering quiet encouragement to the ailing teenager. She was the one who was with him when he first awoke, and John was glad, because he knew that she would have made him feel safer, safer than Dr. Wendell, safer than Dana, and even safer than himself-safer than anyone but his brother, and, at this point, that still wasn't an option.

Sam had been vaguely conscious over the past two days although the Dr. Wendell kept him mostly sedated. It wasn't much, but seeing Sam weakly move his hands and turn his head gave him hope, more hope than he'd had since the accident happened. And he took a certain pleasure in holding his baby boy's hand, stroking his hair, whispering encouraging words until the 18-year-old was calm and drifted back into his drug-induced slumber.

This had been his life for the better part of the week. The nurses and doctors had first discretely suggested he find a motel, then later adamantly requested it, and finally nearly pushed him out the door. But John Winchester had stood face to face with evil; a handful of doctors and nurses weren't about to sway him.

This morning Caitlin had worn her hair down, and it looked recently washed. "Good morning," she said brightly as she bustled in. She took in his disheveled appearance. "I see you haven't showered yet."

"I wanted to check on Sammy first," he said.

She gave him an understanding smile as John settled into a nearby chair, leaning forward to carefully inspect his son.

The nurse went about her usual routine, checking monitors and IVs. She frowned as she pulled the thermometer from his ear.

"What is it?" John asked.

"We're monitoring his temperature," Caitlin replied distractedly. She picked up his chart and made a note.

"And?"

She replaced the chart. "Dr. Wendell will talk to you shortly," she said, far too briefly, trying to exit the room.

John stopped her. "What wrong with my son?"

She looked hesitant and he could see sympathy in her eyes. "Sam's spiked a fever. 102.8."

"What does that mean?"

"I really need to get a doctor--"

"What does it mean?"

She sighed heavily and met his gaze remorsefully. "It means he's probably got an infection."

The words hung like a sentence and John was speechless as she hurried from the room. He watched as Caitlin returned with the doctor. After several minutes of hushed whispering and prodding, Dr. Wendell turned to him.

Over the few days he had known Dr. Wendell, John had come to see him as a man of few expressions. His hopeful look was only marginally better than his realistic look, and his look of empathy seemed to look more like his look of concern. All of his emotions carried the same self-deprecating grimace, as though he was always apologizing for what he was about to say. But the minute the man stepped out of Sam's room, John could tell the news wouldn't be good.

Dr. Wendell's dark brows stitched together and he took a deep breath. "I'm afraid Sam has developed an infection in his lung," he said, a twinge of disappointment in his voice. We're starting him on a full round of antibiotics, but his vitals are not looking good. I was hoping for more progress this many days post op."

John waited for him to continue. "So what does that mean?"

Dr. Wendell shrugged noncommittally. "It's hard to say. Sam's fever is our immediate concern. His body has undergone serious trauma. His immune system is not able to fight of infections like it should."

"What do we do?"

"There's not much we can do except try the different antibiotics," Dr. Wendell said. "Hopefully he'll respond and his fever will be down soon. His body simply cannot handle much more. I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester. I wish I could give you better news."

Normally John would be skeptical of the doctor's sincerity, but the verdict he had delivered was too numbing.

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He hated hospital rooms. He hated how generic they looked, how they all managed to look the same, how they tried to be monotone and forgettable. As if you could ever forget where you were.

He wanted to forget, but the sickly cast to Sam's face would not let him forget. After saving his son so many times, from so many things, there had to be something he could do.

Sam had yet to respond to the newest drugs that had filtered into his system. As he stroked Sam's head, he was disturbed by the growing heat he felt there. Come on, Sammy, fight this thing.

He wished and willed, but Sam's fever raged on below the continual hum of the ventilator.

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The doctors were beginning to look the same, their words were beginning to sound the same.

"We have to start considering the very real possibility that Dean may never recover from his injuries. I realize this is a difficult time, Mr. Winchester, but we have to consider long-term care options for Dean. Postponing it won't make it any easier."

The doctor's voice was gentle, soothing. Did they take How to Break a Parent's Heart 101 in med school? John stared at the wall behind the doctor's ear, unable to speak.

"Mr. Winchester?" Dr. Cavanaugh placed a hand on his shoulder.

The touch made John pull away, and he finally met the doctor's eyes. "No," he said, shaking his head.

She looked sympathetic. "I understand how difficult this is--"

"No, you don't," he said. "How could you possible know how difficult this is?"

"This is an incredibly difficult thing, but--"

"But nothing! I'm not talking about this, alright? I'm not. I don't care about what you say or your test. I've let you do whatever you want to my boys, I haven't blinked, haven't said anything, and I'm done. I'm not doing this."

"Mr. Winchester, if you could just--"

"Don't stand there and try to placate me when both of my sons could be dying!" John knew he was yelling, that people were staring at him, but he couldn't stop himself. "Don't stand there and tell me to accept it because I don't accept it! I can't accept it!" He was crying now, and he could feel a crowd gathering.

But his strength was fading as the grief overwhelmed him. Ashamed, he covered his face with his hand, and hoped to disappear into the wallpaper.

Dr. Cavanaugh shooed the crowd away and approached John tentatively. "You're right, I don't know what you're going through. I'm so very sorry. We've done everything we can for your sons. Tragedy happens, Mr. Winchester, it happens every day. I don't know why, but it does. I can't tell you what will happen to your sons. You have to think of them and what's best for them. But this is a battle you can't fight."

John controlled his breathing, stilling his tears. He looked up and met Dr. Cavanaugh's eyes. I can change fate. "Yes, I can."

She held his gaze, trying to see if his resolve would break. But when it didn't, she pursed her lips and nodded, a sad smile tugging at her lips. "I think I understand, Mr. Winchester. Please, you know how to find me if you need anything."

00000000000000

From Dean's bedside to Sam's: an all too familiar trek. He had barely resumed his post in the chair when a monitor bleeped.

It bleeped again, more insistently.

John was frozen. By the time he remembered the call button, Caitlin was already in the room.

"You're going to have to leave now," she said, her voice as low as he'd ever heard it.

"No, tell me--"

Dr. Hammar was suddenly in the room, followed by another nurse. More alarms went off.

Caitlin moved to him, putting her hand on his arm with force, directing him to the door. "Now, you need to leave," she ordered in an uncharacteristically stern voice.

John stumbled backwards, his eyes not leaving Sam. "Wait, what's happening?"

"Your son is in respiratory arrest," Caitlin explained, her voice purposefully calm. "Now, please, go and let us help him."

A nurse pulled the curtain around Sam's bed, obscuring his son from his view.

"Leave? What--? No--" he said, trying to move toward the ruckus behind the curtain.

"John," she said, meeting his gaze. "You need to let us work now. For Sam."

There was frantic talking in the background.

He could have overpowered her physically, but the finality of her words broke his resolve. He watched as she closed the door in his face and joined the chaos behind the curtain.

No. You can't take my son. You can't take him.

Tears suddenly blinded him and he pounded his fist against the wall.

No.

He turned away, leaning against the wall. His heart pounded violently and his eyes struggled to make sense of his surroundings. A steady buzzing mounting in his ears.

No, no, no.

A cry was ripped from his lips. Someone stopped, tried to help him, but he shoved the hands away. He pushed away from the wall, stumbling down the corridor. He groped desperately through the whitewashed sterile hallways, searching for an exit.

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The rain clouds had blackened, turning the morning into virtual night. The humidity had been broken as a storm shattered the oppressive heat. As rain began to fall, people walked faster. When the wind began to blow and the lightning flashed, people began dashing in doors, seeking any temporary refuge possible.

Except John Winchester.

He had spent far too long in that hospital, far too long sitting by his sons, with nothing to do except hold onto a promise he made himself 18 years ago: nothing would get the better of him or his family--ever.

He had believed it. He had lived by it. He had sacrificed everything for it--everything. He had given up a normal life. He had given up daily amenities and securities. He had given up being a good person, a connected person. He had given up his sons' childhoods, their normalcy. He had held nothing back in his quest.

All so he could change fate. All so he could control what was to come and to fix the one thing in his life he had failed so miserably at.

He had given up everything without question, without hesitation. Now he was being asked to give up his sons.

John didn't feel the rain as he exited the hospital. He didn't hear the thunder as he pushed blindly through the alleys surrounding the hospital. He didn't see the lightning in the secluded dead end he found himself in. But there he was, at a dead end, brick walls looming high. There was nowhere left to turn.

He kicked at a garbage can, and the metal tin clattered to the ground, scattering refuse in its wake. Seeing his impact, he kicked again, spewing more garbage onto the pavement. He lashed out again, flinging himself at the trash containers, throwing them, tossing them, emptying their dirty contents into the rain.

When his foot hit the iron work of a fire escape, pain flashed through his foot, and his ankle rolled, sending him to the ground.

He slapped at the puddles, splashing himself with water, and he screamed an expletive.

The sky answered back with a low rumble.

The rain was blinding, but John's gaze tore viciously through the deluge. He got to his feet in defiance.

"Are you that weak?" His voice was muted by the pounding of the drops against the pavement.

"Is this all you have? You have to attack children now?"

The thrumming patter continued unaffected.

"What, you won't answer me?" John kicked at a puddle.

A flash of lightning bolted overhead, accompanied by a loud clap of thunder.

John laughed, a hysterical, desperate laugh. "Is that it? That's all you can muster?"

The sky lit up and thunder grumbled.

"You can take my sons, but you won't stop me!" he screamed. "Taking them will only make me stronger! Do you hear me?"

John Winchester was fighting the universe.

He was fighting it by himself, a lone, broken man, beating useless fists against the expanse.

There was a time when that would have bothered him, but that part of him had died when Mary died. He had stopped living; instead he had started fighting.

Losing was not an option. He would die before he lost. It would have to kill him, because that was the only way he would ever stop. The fight was everything, it was his life. Everything else just existed to further him along. Everything. Even his sons.

Lightning sizzled in the sky; two consecutive rounds of thunder gurgled in the heavens.

He had given up on God the minute God let his wife be burned alive. He had given up on faith the minute he became a single father of two young sons. He had only himself, in his ability to plan, to prepared, to perfect. That was his grace.

He had gone too far to come back. There are some paths in which you can't turn around again, and he had crossed a point of no return. Regret was superfluous. The end-it was always the end. He had focused on that for 18 years now, and to give up on it now--

It wasn't an option.

He would continue fighting, no matter what. He would bury his sons and keep going, fighting alone until the final victory. He could do it alone, he would do it alone . . . But he didn't want to.

Dear God, he didn't want to.

His sons made him feel alive, they gave him hope, hope that when everything was said and done, there would be someone left to live in the afterglow.

Distantly now, thunder grumbled again.

"I dare you," he whispered spitefully. "I dare you to take them."

Then the rain stopped as suddenly as it began.

John stood, his chest heaving, still dripping, staring up into the grayness.

00000000000000

He sat in the waiting room, his elbows on his knees, chin in his hands, staring, waiting.

He didn't remember finding his way back to the hospital, but there he sat, in a soft square maroon colored chair. His had begun to dry, now only uncomfortably damp, and his hair was frizzled on his head.

The anxiety had vanished. All his troubled what-ifs had disappeared. He had given it everything he had, and there was nothing left to do. Patience was not a virtue he often possessed, but he had taken his turn and could only wait to see what response he would get.

He waited.

People came and went. Someone behind him cried softly, blowing her nose periodically. A small child grew restless, ran around, knocked the newspapers off the tables. A doctor flirted with a nurse, who leaned into him eagerly. A young woman snapped her gum as she talked loudly into a cell phone.

He had seen so many people move in front of him, he barely noticed the nurse before him until she placed a hand on his arm. "Mr. Winchester, we've been looking everywhere for you."

It took him a moment to recognize her--Caitlin, Sam's nurse.

She was smiling; a real, wide smile. "It's Sam. His fever's down. It's amazing. His vitals have improved drastically. Dr. Hammar took him off the vent, and he's breathing on his own. Would you like to see him?"

John let himself be led to Sam's room, where he was met by Dr. Hammar exiting.

"Mr. Winchester," he said. "I'd like to talk to you about Sam."

"Is something wrong? Caitlin said--"

"No, no," Dr. Hammar said. "Quite the contrary. Sam's condition is steadily improving. It was the strangest thing," the doctor said, cocking his head. "Sam was experiencing severe respiratory distress. His lungs were shutting down. And then they just…got better. I've never seen anything quite like it. His fever has been coming down steadily since then. He came to about an hour after it happened and he even started fighting the vent. His vitals improved all day. We just took him off the vent, and he's responding beautifully."

John just watched the doctor, staring at the amazement on his face.

"I didn't think I'd be saying this, but I think Sam's prognosis is very good now. He'll still have a long road ahead of him, but I think your son is going to make it."

"Can I see him now?"

The doctor seemed to shake himself from his reverie. "Yes, of course."

John nodded a thanks, and slipped inside.

The room was the same as he remembered, the lights dim and the walls bare. The heart monitor stilled beeped, although the humming of the ventilator was noticeably gone. Sam had always seemed so broken in that bed, John had been afraid to touch him, but now he strode over to his son, taking his hand in his own, sitting close to his beside.

Sam's eyes opened sluggishly, blinking until John saw recognition. He smiled at his son. "Hey there, champ," he said.

Sam's mouth moved but no sound came out. Licking dry lips, Sam tried again. "Dad?"

The voice was barely a whisper, hoarse and weak, but nothing had ever sounded so beautiful.

"Yeah, Sammy."

Sam looked confused, his forehead crunched in concentration. "…where…?"

"We're in the hospital, Sammy."

The answer didn't still Sam's bewilderment. "…Dean…?"

"There was an accident, Sammy," John said. "But it's going to be okay now."

It had been years since Sam had trusted him implicitly, so Sam's acceptance of his words surprised him. Despite everything, not even Sam could doubt the certainty in his father's eyes. Sam nodded, a small smile of gratitude pulling at his lips. His dad was going to make sure everything was okay.

Oh, Sammy.

The tears burned and his throat constricted but he did not give in. His sons didn't deserve this. He let his hand brush through his son's hair. This was an apology he needed to make. "I'm sorry."

Not just for tonight, for letting him fall, but for all the nights, all the mistakes, all the sacrifices. Mostly for not saving their mother, not saving himself. For all the years he'd asked them to surrender and all the ones he'd take from them still.

Sam didn't reply. His eyes were barely open, falling and rising slowly. He finally let himself sleep, feeling safe in his father's care.

The sob that caught in John's throat surprised him, and he let it out with a laugh, his hand still trembling on Sam's forehead. "I'm sorry," he whispered again.

For a split second, John paused, contemplating a different future for his family. He could walk away. He could take his sons, what was left of their lives, and rebuild it. He could cut his losses, and just be thankful for what he had managed not to lose.

But...but...

In his youngest's eyes, he still saw the fire and he could not forget why they were here. He couldn't just take them home, quit the hunt, and think things could suddenly become perfect. The family was incomplete, irrevocably, and the only thing he knew to make it better was to keep fighting.

Quitting now would make all of it vain. And that was a guilt he could never face, he would never face it. Never look back, never let go, never admit you're wrong.

The last of his doubt was leaving him, new resolve and certainty filling its place. He had called the universe's bluff and it was beginning to throw in its cards. And John was winning.

He wasn't surprised when a nurse came in with a smile on her face. "Mr. Winchester, Dean's awake."

Somehow he didn't even have to see his son to know he'd be okay. He didn't have to meet his gaze, see that deep commitment in his eyes, to know that nothing had changed for Dean.

He left Sam's bedside with more self-assurance than he had had in many years. Through the nurse walked in front of him, John knew he wasn't following her, he was in control of his own course.

Don't worry, Mary. It'll be okay. Someday soon. I will make it right.

John didn't think of guilt, he didn't think of blame. He just believed in what he was doing, believed his determination had pulled it through again. He didn't look back, just kept his eyes focused on his goal, never turning back.