A/N: Special thanks to my best friend Jessica for the beta. One of these days, I'll get her to post one of her stories! And inspired by my friend bhoney, who reminded me that it's "the little things, but you never know how they might touch someone's heart." Loosely based off a true story!

I don't deserve a miracle…

Summary: John isn't sure if he has it in him to have faith. Not for something he's not sure is really there, and definitely not for himself. So where can he possibly turn now that isn't a dead end? He's hit rock bottom.

John recognizes the drop in temperature even before he catches sight of his own breath misting in front of his face.

Good. That means they're getting closer.

"Keep your eyes open," he throws over his shoulder, and then glances again at his hand-drawn map. The house had burnt to the ground years before and the site should have been right about…here.

A few more steps and John can see the skeletal structure bared to the elements in the beam of his flashlight. A quick assessment of the grounds and he moves on, walking through the rotting timbers and debris that cover the small expanse, passing rusted iron struts and pieces of rebar that jut from the remains, like crooked arms reaching out of the Earth.

As creepy as the site is, the house isn't their destination. The barn is.

With determined steps he heads downriver, Dean following close behind. Determined, because they're currently standing at ground zero, and while John usually enjoys bringing his oldest along on a job, the way the dilapidated building abruptly appears out of the fog unnerves him.

Nerves and doubts, though, have no place here. If he's taught his boys anything it would've been that. You don't hunt without knowing what you're up against and you definitely don't hunt if you aren't confident you'll come out alive.

Their quarry is one Eleanor Blackwater, loving wife and upstanding citizen, murdered by her son and back from the grave to terrorize the local fishing community.

For being thirty-some years deceased, the dead woman could sure pack a punch.

Falling back to the ground after being thrown a good fifteen feet, John turns just in time to see Dean point his sawed-off at her. With precise military training he fires, and the shot should have done his father proud, but Blackwater disappears before it can connect.

John curses under his breath, but even as he pulls himself up he's already shaking off the ache of the fall and reorienting himself back into position. Dean is already ahead of him, reloading his weapon without so much as a glance. The kid is good, better than John had been at that age, and really, that was all he could have asked for. John wouldn't be getting any Daddy-of-the-Year awards, but at least his sons could hold their own in a fight.

"Dad, behind you!"

John spins, firing his own shot, but she's gone again.

"Nimble little minx," Dean remarks, and even as John glares at him he's cracking a smile.

"Keep your head in the game," John warns. There's a time and a place for Dean's roguish sarcasm, but it isn't now. "Stay focused," he growls, "She ain't done."

And she isn't. John can just…feel it. The world around them is still, not even the nearby chirping of frogs and crickets to break the silence.

"Where you think the old nut job put her?" Dean asks.

The said nut job had told John exactly where she would be, right before passing on himself. Apparently, even murderers thought they could make their lives right before the end. "The barn," John quips. "There's a storm cellar around the back. Buried."

It's annoying to have to drag along a shovel and dig for the door, but yeah, she's there, leathery carcass stuffed amongst the emergency food store in a forgotten cellar.

"Ew, gross," Dean grumbles, and John's not sure if he's talking about the body or the jars of pickled unmentionables.

Regardless, they need to hurry. As soon as Blackwater figures out what is going on, she'll retaliate. "Get her ready," John orders.

Dean makes quick work; the deceased is doused and salted when a cry pierces the night air. "Dad!"

John's heart freezes, blood chilling within him, because that isn't Dean.

Oh God, Sammy.

"Dad – Sam!" Dean shouts, dropping matches and taking off for the stairs.

The Impala is empty, the door ajar and swinging slightly in the wind that rustles the high reeds and cattails around them. They had parked upriver from the house, left Sam where he should have been safe, where the ghost shouldn't have been able to touch him.

"Sammy!" Dean shouts into the rain, and John holds his breath to hear the reply, because Sam always answers his big brother.

But there's no reply. And there's no Sam.

A wet gust of wind whips against his face. "Sam!" John bellows. "Sam! Answer me!"

As if to mock him, the sound of malevolent snickering fills the silence around them. Dean pinpoints its direction first, and if John needs any proof that Dean loses his head when it comes to his brother, this effectively solidifies it when he abandons the mission and takes off toward the house.

The river is swollen; the ground slippery from the earlier downpour, but John dashes after him as he crosses the bank, all the while praying the light rain won't obstruct his vision. He needs to see everything. Dean might have thrown all caution to the wind, but John needs to stay focused and aware.

And then there he is; Sam, appearing suddenly out of the gray gloom, ten or so yards from the house, looking completely unharmed, albeit frantic.

"Sam!" Dean calls to him. At the sound of his name Sam turns, and the curtain of rain surrounding him does nothing to hide the overwhelming relief that rushes over him, from his expression to very way he's holding himself.

Dean reaches him first, and Sam's arms immediately tackle him. It isn't like Sam, not since he decided he was too old to be hugged, but his yelp of, "OhgodDeanyou'reallright!" is muffled by his brother's shirt, and for some reason it infuriates John even more as he charges up beside them both.

"What the hell are you doing out here?" he demands, eyes glittering and hot.

Sam is drenched, rain plastering his hair to his skull. His boots and jeans are muddy, as if he'd trudged through the river just to get to them, but he wilts under the weight of his father's glower, and John can't find it in himself to feel bad about that. "You were…I thought you were…I heard you!" Sam stutters.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean says, soothing.

"But I heard…"

"I don't care what you heard," John spits through his teeth, feeling his ire rise. "You were given a direct order, Sam. I told you to stay in the car."

Sam pulls away, but Dean's still grasping him by the shoulders, his gaze locking on his brother's with an intensity that John has come to learn is reserved only for Sam. "What did you hear?" Dean asks.

Anger sticks in his throat at being ignored and John practically chokes on it. It's ridiculous. Here they are, standing in the rain, their backs completely unprotected, and Dean wants to try to figure this out!

It's enough to make John spit nails. "Well?" he demands, his anger growing with every breath. "What did you hear?" He's not interested in hearing excuses, but Sam had better have a damn good reason for his defiance.

Looking back and forth, from his father to his brother, Sam can only stutter. "You…you were calling for help…I thought you were…you were screaming."

"Screaming for you," Dean tells him.

Sam's shaking his head wildly. "No…no…"

And John can't take it anymore. "Samuel Winchester!" he snaps, the already prominent cords in his throat sticking out in acute relief against the thick column of his neck.

"Dad wait," Dean interrupts his tirade, which is growing hotter with every minute, and turns back to his brother. "Calm down, Sam. You're not making any sense."

John's eyes narrow dangerously, and when Dean realizes his mistake, his hand curls around Sam's arm in response. John ignores it. He's too angry. "So help me, Sam, if you don't get back to the car this instant I'm…"

He doesn't finish. Without warning, the nine year old is ripped backwards, letting loose a cry of pain and terror. John fires, his rock salt round missing the apparition by mere inches. Dean is next, shoved hard by an invisible force that sends him careening in the opposite direction of his brother, and John curses riotously.

She's separated them, divided his attention between his boys. If he went for Sam, she'd attack Dean. If he went for Dean, she'd go for Sam.

John hisses in frustration at his youngest, forces himself to ignore the pitiful gasps that are now coming from where the house had once stood, and concentrates on their predicament. If Sam had just stayed in the car…

Doesn't matter now, he tells himself. He's got to clear his head, got to focus. He's furious at Sam, at his inability to listen or follow orders, but anger will only cloud his judgment and slow him down. As far as he knows, they're all targets at this point. What he needs is a distraction, something to get her to focus on him instead of his boys…

John shoots a round and a few insults into the air to draw her attention. She doesn't disappoint, and John is knocked sideways before he can take aim. He gets her with the second shot, though, and Eleanor Blackwater disappears with an angry shriek.

He wastes no time dashing back to the barn. Dean's matches are exactly where he'd dropped them.

Blackwater decides to make one more appearance, throwing John across the small room and crashing into a wall just as he drops the lighted match. Too late, the fiery hole that starts in her lower stomach expands outward until her entire body literally dissolves, her ghostly form disintegrating as her tie to the mortal world goes up in flames.

There. Mission accomplished.

"Dean?" John calls. When there's no answer, he uses the butt of his sawed-off as a crutch to push himself off the ground. "Dean?"

Again no answer, and it worries him just a little. Dean's supposed to be at his back; he should have followed him once he had recovered. John hobbles outside, picking up speed as his legs gain strength. "Dean! Sam!"

"Dad!" comes the answering shout, and John isn't prepared for the panic fortified in his oldest son's tone. His gut knows there's something wrong and he's running before his mind even catches on.

There's blood oozing from Sam's mouth, and a dark object sticking up through his T-shirt, now stained watery red.

Some part of John's brain recognizes it as a shaft of rebar.

Oh God.

John rears back in horror, dropping his makeshift crutch. "What the hell?" And he's suddenly on his knees, yanking off his outer shirt, heart crammed up in his throat.

The wound is seeping blood and Dean's stammering, "She…he must've…when he was thrown…I didn't…" But John is already piecing together the horrible tableau. Blackwater had known exactly what she was doing when she had tossed Sam. The crimson pool gathering beneath his back, mixing with rainwater said as much. The force of his landing had driven one of the rusted shafts up through Sam's abdomen, impaling him from below.

The pitiful gasps John had heard earlier now made sense.

"Sam!" he shouts, slapping his son's face. "Sam? You hear me?"

He doesn't, of course. He's cold to the touch, eyes fluttering and breath hitching.

John doesn't dare think anything more after that. He blanks his mind, just acts. Everything else can be dealt with later.

"We're gonna have to pull him off," he tells Dean urgently, tossing him his shirt. "Here, roll that up. I'll lift, you tie."

Dean pries his eyes away from his brother, his voice low with fear. "Won't he bleed to death if we move him?"

"Listen to me, Dean," John snaps, desperation making his words harsh because there isn't time for this. "We don't have a choice! Now on my mark. One…two…"

He doesn't remember getting Sam off the rebar, or to the car for that matter. Sam's shivering in the backseat as John claws for the keys, starting the car with a bark at Dean to find his coat and get it wrapped around them. The engine roars to life and John spins the wheel hard, flooring the gas, fishtailing gravel.

He doesn't remember the drive either. Not when Sam's cries have trailed off into something more like…like gurgles, and Dean keeps shooting him panicked glances, looking like he'll come apart at any moment.

Because Dean isn't the only one coming apart.

"Keep it together," John says fiercely. Whether he's talking to himself or to his oldest he's not sure. All he knows is that the miles to the next town have never seemed as glaring they do now.

But Sam is breathing, and as John swallows down bile he's torn between relief at the sight of the nine year old's chest rising and falling and the fear it won't last much longer. He has Dean check his vitals several times along the way, getting a little response each time, but he doesn't like the widening pupils. That wide, fixed stare has John paying more attention to the rearview mirror than to the road.

He squeezes his eyes shut when it's too much to handle, the all-too familiar scene a painful reminder of happier times: Sam, cradled in Dean's lap, John's worn leather jacket draped over him in sleep, Dean's arms wrapped around him because Sam isn't awake to notice.

The bile's a lot harder to swallow this time; impossible when he hands his unresponsive and bleeding child to a panicked orderly at the entrance of the hospital's emergency room.

And then Sam's gone, and both John and Dean are swept aside in a flurry of medical staff.

John's only dimly aware of the nurse that comes in and offers him a styrofoam cup. She doesn't have any news on Sam, so he waves her off. He doesn't have the patience for things like coffee right now, and he can't concentrate anyway, not with the buzzing in his ears or the pressure that feels like inflating a balloon inside his chest.

He's never experienced heart-wrenching worry quite like this. True, he had worried for Mary on that terrible night, but even as he had raced back into the nursery, rage and ice-cold panic tearing at his gut, John had understood; had known. The certainty hadn't comforted him, nor had it stopped him from trying to get to her, but he had known it was too late.

Not knowing…that was worse. Not knowing if Sam was all right, if he would pull through, it's enough to make him crazy.

To keep himself from thinking about Sam, he sets his attention on Dean. Dean, who has slipped far into himself, sitting with his hands laced behind his neck and elbows balanced on his knees.

John knows it's his way of coping. Like father, like son. Dean hasn't so much as stirred since Sam was wheeled away, and if he's noted John's anxious stares, he's made no sign of it. There's still blood on his clothes and hands that he's made no attempt to remove, and John's started to worry, if he loses one son, how much of the other one will go with him?

No, he can't think like that. He needs to try to reach his oldest, for both their sakes. Because if something does happen to Sam, the two of them will be all that's left of their already small family.

But how to draw Dean out? John's never really been the comforting type. That was always more Dean's area of expertise. Besides, if Dean really is anything like his father, smothering him with care will more likely kill him than help.

John scratches his head uneasily before rubbing at tired eyes. He's always, in a way, kept himself aloof from his family, reigning in his emotions and keeping them under lock and key. There was no doubt he cared for his boys but, truth be told, he'd always hid it behind gruffness and barked orders, demanding respect instead of love. It probably wasn't healthy, but in his line of work, their safety was more important than meaningful talks and board game-filled family nights.

The world had suddenly become a far more dangerous place when Mary died. He had wanted his boys to be strong, strong enough to survive out in that world. So he kept himself strong, even when he felt weak, thinking that Dean and Sam would learn from him by example if not by their training. And maybe they had, but in the end, that aloofness had made John ill equipped to deal with situations like this; situations other than tracking, killing, and the occasional reminder to brush their teeth.

Aw hell...

John clears his throat, and it sounds as awkward is it feels. "Dean…"

When Dean doesn't reply, John kicks his boot.

"Just…don't, Dad." Dean's reply is automatic, and he doesn't miss the underlying leave me alone.

The silence that follows is even more uncomfortable. John's instincts are screaming to leave it be, let Dean deal with his own fears – I'm no counselor, damn it! – but finally he squares his shoulders and addresses his son in a manner he knows Dean will respond to. "Man up, soldier. You wanna help Sam? Pull yourself together. Talk to me."

It works, and Dean's eyes lift to meet his. "The door…the door was still open."

"What?"

"The car door. Dad, it was still open. He said he heard me screaming." And his voice is so broken that John can't help but flinch and glance around like he wants to be anywhere but here.

Coward, he chides himself, and instead puts a hand on Dean's knee in a clumsy attempt to console him. "Dean…it's all right."

"No, it's not all right. He jumped out of the car."

Dean's cryptic explanation is making a little too much sense. The fact that the car door had been wide open had not escaped John's notice. It meant that Sam had left quickly, so quickly that he hadn't thought to close it behind him. The kid had probably been desperate to find them. The thought Dean had picked up on that little detail as well makes John's throat tight.

"It's not our fault, Dean. It's not your fault."

"Mr. Ullery…"

Dean turns immediately, the thirteen year old swiping a hand over his traitorous eyes. John follows a second later. Right – John Ullery and his two sons, Dean and…and Sam.

He's usually faster at picking up on whatever alias they're using on a job, but given the circumstances, he ought to be allowed to be a little out of it.

The doctor who offers his hand to John is a head shorter, mid-forties maybe, with eyes a faded blue. Or gray; there's no way John can tell through his own that are suddenly full at the news he bears.

"I'm sorry," the doctor says afterward. "But we need to know how extensive Samuel's injuries are. An exploratory laparotomy should do that and hopefully we can rule out serious damage, but you need to understand, Samuel's chances aren't good. There's a lot of internal organs in the lower abdomen that the rebar may have penetrated through: intestines, kidney, liver, spleen…"

And Dean is suddenly on his feet next to him, eyes burning bright. "You mean my brother could die?"

On impulse, John puts his hand out, the order to stand down clear.

"I'm sorry," the doctor repeats, glancing down at Dean. He doesn't say it harshly, but it's evident that, engraved within the faint lines of his aged face, he's dealt with many hopeless situations, careful not to offer too much hope for fear of giving ill-fated expectations. "Slow bleeding inside the abdomen is extremely difficult to diagnose and we have to consider it a possibility since the first CAT Scan we took showed no blood flow to the liver at all. We're doing everything we can but until we know what we're dealing with, there's nothing else I can give you."

Beside him, Dean moans, a low, tormented sound that John's never heard him make before.

Breathing's difficult, and John can't seem to get enough air as he thanks the doctor, but it's Dean who is seeing red spots shifting in front of his eyes.

Once they're alone, Dean turns on him. "This is all your fault!" he croaks, his voice hoarse as he points an accusing finger at his father.

"How is this my fault?" John demands, the shock of the doctor's news momentarily forgotten. This isn't like Dean, and John's hackles rise in expectation of a fight. "If Sam would have just stayed in the car like he was told…"

But Dean isn't listening. His eyes, two dark bruises against skin that's lost all color, are already red-rimmed and brimming with unshed tears.

"Why didn't you just let him stay home?" his oldest sneers venomously.

John is floored. Dean's never once raised his voice to him, never looked at him with such contempt. "You watch your tone with me, boy," John orders, but his own lacks the unusurpable authority it usually contains.

"You selfish bastard," Dean spits back at him, ignoring his father's direct order and using language that no thirteen year old has a right to even know. "He didn't even want to come with us. All he wanted was to stay in the room! Why didn't you just let him?" Dean is babbling now, practically shouting and uncaring if the whole hospital hears. "He hates this life! Hates hunting! Hates being dragged all across the country! But you just gotta have it your way! You force him to go everywhere with you! Then you just leave him in the car so he can be attacked…"

And then Dean is rushing him.

"I hate you!" he screams.

His son's fists fly at him, furious and uncontrolled, hammering his chest with blow after blow, and John can do nothing but stand there and take it.

Dean, he tries to say, but his mouth is too dry, too numb, and he just…can't.

Dean's anguished and angry protests rock his soul. Dean, his oldest, the glue to their family, the one who always stands tall, who never wavers, is literally vibrating with despair.

Finally, in one swift movement, John catches his wrists, stilling his son's assault. And Dean loses it.

Folding in on himself, Dean slumps forward, his cries at first as silent and as voiceless as his pain, but building until his grief is so searing that John can no longer take it.

"Dean…I…" but words fail him.

For a long, painful moment they're frozen that way, John gripping his son's wrists hard in each hand, and Dean, gasping for breath, his smaller body shaking with barely controlled fury and desperation.

And suddenly, it isn't just John's soul swelling with rage.

"Get away from me!" Dean snarls, twisting in his father's arms and wrenching his body to get away from him. He tears his hands from John's and gives the larger man a violent shove. "I hate you!"

He should react, he knows he should, but Dean's voice seems to be coming from further and further away, because a dull roaring is beginning to fill John's ears and because all he can do is stare uncomprehendingly into his son's eyes…

He means it. God, Dean really means it.

The room is suddenly suffocating, too small for so much anger. For so much pain.

Dean's staring at him, and John is struck immobile by the raw grief he sees there. Grief that he's caused. Grief that's just.

Grief he should be sharing, but until now hasn't allowed himself to feel.

Sam, his youngest, is dying, and he has no one to blame but himself.

Fury and remorse merge as one, rising in his throat to choke him. He can't breathe, his air's completely gone; he can't speak, there are just no words.

He has to get out, get away from his son's accusing eyes. Without another word, John turns away, stalking out the waiting room door, not even bothering to apologize to the nurse he startles on his way out.

John wanders aimlessly through the hospital halls. Anything is better than the mind-consuming grief that's dead weight on his soul. Anything is better than the look in Dean's eyes when he'd forced his father to realize the truth.

It was his fault. The hunt, the ghost, Sam.

Is he truly so heartless that he can't just face it?

He should turn around, should make amends with Dean, should sit with Sam. If he can't do anything else, at least he can be with his son until…

No. He won't go there. Sam can't die. He just…can't. He and Dean – they're the only things John has left. To lose them, either of them, on top of losing Mary…

Really, what had he been thinking taking both his children out there? He'd assumed that the ghost would have been tied to the barn. All the bodies had been found there, impaled with various objects, ranging from pitchforks to garden tools. Blackwater had been killing as she had been killed, lashing out at a world that had let her die, and so violently.

Assuming anything was a dangerous business.

Just like he'd assumed Sam would be safe in the car.

"You're a super hero dad." The young voice echoes in his mind, and John's thoughts spiral to the thin, wiry boy with unruly brown hair. Sam, his nose always buried in books. Sam, his sarcasm and wit as quick as his brother's. Sam, who fought tooth and nail to do the mundane, like play soccer or go to the movies. Sam, who openly complained about everything. Sam, who looked up to his brother with such respect and admiration. Sam, who used to look at his father that way.

John covers his face with his hands, feeling tears crowd in his throat and press against his eyes but refusing to let them fall. When had all that changed? When had he started caring more about his mission than about his family?

It was, he acknowledged jadedly, because he had forgotten he loved his family. Somehow, in his passionate need for retribution, he had lost sight of that. The knowledge shames him. And it'd been a long time since John Winchester had felt shame.

The roar in his ears is still there as he looks up. His feet have brought him to a wing of the hospital that looks to be seldom used. There's an unmarked door in front of him and he focuses on the sign hanging beside it. One word, engraved on a simple silver plate, reads CHAPEL.

He hesitates for a beat, and then before he can change his mind, pushes it open.

The room is small, dimly lit by candlelight, but pleasantly cozy. A plain wooden crucifix hangs on the far wall, the chapel's only decoration. There are no gilded alters, no statues of martyred saints, as if the architect had been more concerned about the calming nature of such a holy place rather than the beauty. A simple podium stands just off to the right of the stage and varnished wooden pews line either side.

It feels wrong somehow as John nervously shuffles inside and notices that, sitting quietly on the very front row, is an elderly man with graying hair.

The rosary in his hand jingles as the man turns when he hears the door open. Bright, sad eyes regard the newcomer with interest and John returns his gaze, feeling shame wash through him again. Then the old man hangs his head, like it's too heavy for him, and turns back to face the cross.

Heart pounding, stomach knotted, John moves into the aisle and sits at the very back.

It's a few moments before he can gather his thoughts,even in this place that exudes peace and tranquility.

What am I doing here?

John's not sure if he believes in God. After all, if there was a God, how could He have allowed…all of this?

It makes him angry, something he can't deny sitting in this quiet sanctuary. For Sam, for Mary, for their lives, for the life they were all denied. Angry at monsters and ceilings and his family living out of a car. Angry with every job, with every argument, with the one deity that had the power to have prevented their lives from being torn apart but for some reason chose to let it happen. At the force or forces that demanded so much sacrifice from his small family and gave nothing in return.

If there was a God, how could He have allowed his wife to be murdered? How could He take everything that John ever cared about and then take his son away from him, too?

Was it all a punishment? Was this God's wrath, righteously punishing his family for John's countless sins?

There are so many questions. God was supposed to be merciful, but here in the dark, heaven's mercy seems very far away. Another dead end.

John leans forward, lets his head fall into his arms. He's drained of everything - emotion, feeling; physically, mentally. Hell, even spiritually. There's no one left to reach out to, no one left to answer his cry for help.

Despite his own misgivings, John searches his soul for answers. For the wisdom he needs and thought that maybe, just maybe, this place would inspire. But his soul still feels empty; a cold, lifeless chasm. And he can't help but wish he could find just one measly drop of faith to rely on. After all, hadn't Jesus said that if you had the faith of a mustard seed that you could move mountains?

John's no stranger to the Bible, has large portions of it memorized in fact, but it had always been nothing more than an information source to him. Just another book to research, a history to delve into.

He grimaces to himself. A mustard seed was tiny, about the size of a grain of salt. If it were so easy to have that kind of faith, then why weren't more miraculous things being done every day? There were plenty of people who believed in God out there, people with problems, facing their own personal trials and tribulations, but since the news hadn't reported any mountains miraculously moving from continent to continent, John had never taken it seriously.

Looking up at the cross, John isn't sure if he has it in him to have faith. Not for something he's not sure is really there, and definitely not for himself. So where can he possibly turn now that isn't a dead end? He's hit rock bottom.

Hit and dragged his family along with him.

So give up? Everything in him wants to, and that's a frightening thought, because John's never been one to give up on anything.

But giving up isn't an option, not when it comes to his family. Dean and Sam are the most important things John has left. He'll never stop fighting for them.

John chokes down a sob. He's still not sure if he believes in God, but for his family…

He wipes at his eyes, and the words that follow are soft. "Listen…uh…I don't…I don't know how to pray…don't even really know if you'll listen to me but…but please. Don't take him away from me."

The silence of the room is heavy, the weight in his chest suffocating, but he can't stop the words now that they're coming. "I know I'm not… I haven't been the best man… best dad… and I know I've done my share of wrong and I don't have any right to ask for a miracle but…please, don't let them suffer for it." It's easy to ask. Easy to finally lay bare the burden, even if no one else is there to hear it. "Please get us through this. Please. I'll do anything." And he would. God, he would. "I promise you. Just…please…don't take him away from me."

John doesn't know how long he's sat there when he hears the door open behind him. Hears it, because he damn well can't see it, and he wipes at his wet cheeks before Dean's hand falls on his shoulder.

"The doc's looking for you," Dean says, and before John can stop himself he rests his own hand atop his son's. It's out of character for him, especially after their words in the waiting room, but John's past caring.

He isn't expecting the return squeeze. Or for the raw and disbelieving smile Dean ghosts him. "Dad," he says, eyes shining, swallowing air. "Sam's gonna be okay."

And just like that, the anguished weight in John's chest is gone.

Sam's gonna be okay?

Disbelief freezes him. "What?" he asks, dumbly, and his voice sounds appallingly weak. No more than a gravely whisper.

Dean gives a dubious laugh. "Yeah. I don't know how but…Come on. The doc's looking for you."

Sam's gonna be okay?

John stands on unsteady legs, a wary, painful joy spreading over him. And something else. Peace?

Whatever it is, it settles over him and for the first time in, well, a long time, John can actually breathe.

Sam's gonna be okay.

The chapel is silent as John glances up at the cross hanging on the far wall. And at the empty seat on the front row.

What?

He jerks his head toward the door, then back at the empty seat.

Impossible…

"Dad?" Dean's frowning at him, probably wondering why he's hesitating, but John's too busy running the last few hours over in his mind, trying to protect himself from false hope. From believing.

"What's wrong?" Dean presses.

John's never really believed in God, or in miracles for that matter, but all at once, here in this quiet sanctuary, with an empty front pew and Dean tugging on his arm, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, someone was listening to him after all.

His eyes and heart full of gratitude, John mutters a quiet, "Thanks," to the empty room and turns to leave with his son.

"What do you mean it missed all vital organs?" John asks, incredulous. His mind can hardly accept the wild hopes tumbling through his head. It doesn't make sense. He's no medic, but the rebar…

The doctor is shaking his head. "Just that. I don't understand it either, Mr. Ullery. Stab wounds to the lower abdomen frequently lead to hemorrhaging from the penetration of major vessels or solid organs. In plain English, I told you about the CT Scan we did when Samuel first arrived that showed he had no blood flow to his liver? Today, the blood flow has increased to almost normal."

"What do you mean?" Dean asks, still not quite getting it.

"I mean, when your brother was thrown from that four-wheeler, he…landed just right. He's a very lucky young man. The fact of the matter is, if Samuel had been any older, he'd be dead right now. His heart was beating so fast that his body wouldn't have been able to sustain it."

There's a moment of silence as both John and Dean process this information. Then, blinking with emotion, Dean corrects, "It's Sam."

To their surprise the doctor laughs, and when he lays a hand on Dean's shoulder, his eyes are soft with compassion. "I wouldn't worry if I were you," he says warmly. "You're brother's got someone looking out for him, kid."

John looks at the kindly doctor, at Dean, smiling now like a kid at Christmas, at his silent and pale - but alive! – youngest, and thinks that maybe, just maybe, he really can find the courage to believe.

A/N: As I said in the beginning, this was "loosely" based off a true story. Several years ago a friend of mine's daughter was riding a four wheeler alone on her parent's land when she fell off a four or five foot drop and landed on a piece of rebar. It pierced her abdomen, I believe all the way through. By the grace of God she managed to pull herself off of it and limp all the way back to her parent's home. She had to wait half an hour for the ambulance to get there, and when they did get there they didn't know where to take her because one hospital didn't have the equipment they needed to treat her and the other didn't have enough people on staff. To get her through they put her into a drug-induced coma. The cat scans taken as soon as she arrived at the hospital showed that she had no blood flow to her liver, but by that Friday, she'd regained it. Truly a miracle! Going in for checkups later on the surgeon that treated her told her that if she had been any older she would have died. Like Sam, her heart had been beating so fast that her body couldn't have sustained it for long.