Title: Deathbed Confessions of a Broken Man
Author:
brosedshieldDisclaimer: If anyone owns anything in this relationship, Supernatural owns my heart. And won't give it back. And won't pay me for it. (i.e. Don't own, don't profit)
Characters: Deanna, John, Sam
Warnings: none
Rating: PG
Word count: 1295
Spoilers: through the end of S2.1
Summary: John Winchester sat beside the hospital bed and looked down at his little girl...
Author notes: The excellent
lavinialavender ihas once again been a wonderful beta. I would probably do nothing without her, and there would be so many more typos...
John Winchester sat beside the hospital bed and looked down at his little girl.
Because that’s what Deanna was, and always would be, in spite of the way they had fucked it up between them. In spite of the butch clothing and the short hair, her steeling don’t-fuck-with-me eyes and her no-nonsense handling of a weapon, he could still see the little girl she had been, back when he had called her princess and spun her until she giggled, a small bundle of light and joy in his arms.
Looking down at her now, at the bruises across her still, lifeless face and the breathing tubes that kept her an inch away from death, John knew there was no one else to blame but him. It wasn’t fate, or God, some ancient prophet or the yellow-eyed bastard that had taken away his little girl, but his obsession, his need for something he could understand, shape, and protect. He’d wanted her to be tough and fierce so she would never be hurt. But he had hurt her most of all.
He thought about taking her limp hand in his. Maybe if he prayed hard enough, said he was sorry hard enough, she would open her eyes and be there again, his precious, tough-walking, ass-kicking daughter. But no matter how he loved her-both of his children-they were not a family that touched easily, full of hugs and kisses. If she woke up and found him touching her, he didn’t know what she would think. Would she know her Daddy loved her, or would she wonder what was wrong, what monster possessed him now?
Sam entered the room, but stopped at the sight of him. “Any change?” he asked. The words were a formality, white noise. Sam could see there had been no change. He kept his eyes locked on John’s, the old simmering bitterness between them held just under the surface.
“No,” John answered. “No change.”
Sam was angry, and this time John had to admit he had a right. There was no denying it. Part of him-a part John didn’t often go because it hurt too much-had to admit that maybe Sam had had a right to be angry many times.
But part of it was Sam’s fault, John told himself. The boy didn’t listen, didn’t do as he was told, wasn’t anything like his sister.
But even there, John had to stop himself, had to admit that he had never fully been able to separate Sam from Mary’s death, and before that, from their arguments. John wouldn’t go so far as to say his son had been an accident, but he and Mary had already been fighting, the nights he spent away from them had been getting longer, and neither of them had really believed another baby would bring them closer together.
Deanna, as she had been, was a symbol of the early years of their marriage, a time when their love had been so deep and passionate they would have died for each other, charged Hell or fought Heaven for each other. But Sam would forever be bound up, much as John hated to admit it, with the bitter words, the long nights alone, and, eventually, the sight of the woman he loved more than life-however badly he showed it-burning alive on the nursery ceiling. John had never blamed Sam for Mary’s death. He had tried as hard as he could to shelter the boy, disengage the cute, angry, doe-eyed child from memories of the fire, death, and a terrified but determined little girl carrying her baby brother from the inferno.
Even as he learned more clearly what had happened that night, as he got closer to killing the yellow-eyed demon that had taken his wife and deprived him of the perfect family he’d never really had, he couldn’t blame his son for the demon’s interest in him, the pointless death of his mother, the possible doom that hung over them, but Sam was also a constant reminder of the rupture in his life, the catalyst that had made him a monster, his Impala a gypsy wagon, and his precious little girl a soldier and little else.
Sam stared at him from the room’s threshold, but John didn’t know what he was looking for. Did the boy want him to say he was sorry?
The silence stretched between them, the accusation in Sam’s eyes almost made him ready to say it, to choke the words out, but then Sam broke first, turned away.
“I’m going to the cafeteria,” he said. “You want anything?”
If Sam had said that to anyone else, John would have taken it as a peace gesture. But there had never been peace between them. This was a delay, a reprieve, because Sam, as much as John, had no idea what to say, or how to say it when Deanna was lying, instead of standing, between them.
“I’m good,” John said.
The war flared up in Sam’s eyes, in the anger he saw in his youngest’s eyes, when he heard those words. And then he turned and was gone.
John hated to admit it, but he had been tempted to hit Sam more than once when the little shit was shooting his mouth off, standing in the way, glowering with that snotty look in his face, always asking “Why? Why?” when he should have just been doing what he was told the first time because John knew he knew best. He had to be right, or he might have already made the worst mistakes of his life.
But Deanna had always been there, throwing herself between him and her brother, declaring with her eyes and her actions that any time they hurt each other, they hurt her.
Sam didn’t ask why anymore. Or if he did, he didn’t expect an answer. He went straight for the fight, straight for the throat. And it was instinct now to beat the boy down, nothing of thought in John’s response because he loved them, dammit. They should listen to him. Sam should listen. Sam should have just fucking shot him, and the demon with him. John could admit, if only to himself, that his children would be better off without him.
They would survive without him, but he didn’t think he could survive without them. He couldn’t imagine a hell worse than his life without Deanna and Sam in it.
Which is why, the next time he saw Sam, he told him to get the ingredients for a demon summoning. Which is why he kept his mouth shut and let Sam pursue some kind of ghost angle, imagining that Dee was still there, listening to and hating it when they argued. He didn’t need Sam interfering this last time as he saved the life of his little girl.
Because Dee had to survive. Mary’s death had hurt him, but he knew he couldn’t survive Deanna.
The only thing that made him hesitate-other than the fact that he was throwing away decades of the fight for revenge in one damned deal-was what he knew about Sam. He had tried, for years, ever since he found out, to tell himself that it wasn’t Sam’s fault, that it would never come to a bullet in the back of the head for his son. He couldn’t quite believe that now, not with what he had learned recently, but he thought that maybe Dee would have the strength to do what he could not.
Not that it really mattered. He couldn’t just sit there and let her die. Not his little princess. For her he would give up his soul. Wouldn’t even ask more than to know that his little girl was safe again.
Fortunately, he had a buyer.