Fic: Renascentia. SPN. Gen. Weechesters. 2/2
Continued from here.
“Young man, you shouldn’t sleep out here,” a voice says as someone shakes him gently. Dean jerks awake. He’s shivering so badly he can hardly breathe. “Hey, you alright, son? Where are your parents?”
He looks up into the concerned watery eyes of a man old enough to be his great-grandfather, if he had one. The man glances around, lips turning thin with anger at whatever neglectful parent he assumes let their boy sleep outside in the cold.
Boy. Singular.
Dean’s alone.
He jumps up in panic but instantly falls over, his legs gone numb, and his head swimming. “Sammy,” he croaks out as he grabs hold of the bench and tries to heave himself up to no avail. “Sammy!”
“Whoa there!”
The man grabs Dean’s jacket by the shoulder and hauls him to his feet but the minute he lets go Dean starts swaying and he ends up clutching the man’s arm while looking frantically around the playground.
“My little brother!” he sobs. “I need to… Sammy!”
“Dean! There you are!”
Dean freezes. Dad is going to kill him when he finds out he lost Sammy. His one job and he couldn’t even… He turns his head, and the relief is so instant he collapses, the old man fumbling and failing to catch him before he hits the ground.
Dad is stalking toward them, Sammy hoisted up on his arm. There’s a look of concern on Dad’s face, of worry and relief, but Dean knows his Dad. Behind that mask he is furious. Dean doesn’t care. He’ll take his punishment. All that matters is that Sammy is here, and he’s safe, and Dean didn’t get him lost or taken or killed.
“Thank you, sir, so much for finding him,” Dad is saying as he quickly lowers Sammy to the ground and pulls Dean into his arms. It’s a show, a play for the audience, Dean knows, but for a moment he allows himself to pretend. To be small and wanted, like the boy the old man thinks he is. “Kid’s supposed to be sick in bed,” he hears his dad lie. “He wandered out. Been searching for him for over an hour.”
“He was dead asleep on the bench,” the old man says, reaching out to ruffle Dean’s hair. “You better take him home and warm him up. Could catch his death, sleeping out here. Not even wearing a hat, are you, young man?”
Dean let Sammy have his beanie after he lost his own, some weeks ago. Dean was going to steal a new one out of the lost-and-found at school. Maybe some gloves too and a scarf. He just keeps forgetting.
The man and Dad are still talking, and Dad hasn’t shoved Dean away or reminded him that he’s a big boy now, not a baby, so he stays where he is, safe in the warm embrace of his father’s arms. He’s losing consciousness fast, hardly even noticing Sammy forcing his way between Dad’s arms and chest to snuggle up to his brother.
“Well, I better get him home,” Dean hears Dad say and then, “Can you walk, kiddo?” but Dean is too tired to answer or even open his eyes.
After a moment Dad sighs and stands up with a groan, both boys clutched in his arms, Sammy’s hand fisted in the back of Dean’s jacket, Dean limp as a ragdoll. Dad’s voice is a rumble under Dean’s ear, where it’s pressed against Dad’s chest, as he thanks the man and tells him goodbye, take care and thank you again. Dean is waiting for that voice to turn hard with disappointment the moment they’re out of earshot, right before he’ll be shaken awake and told to toughen up, to walk like a big boy and not be whatever he is right now. A baby, a wimp, a burden. Weak. He falls asleep.
“Is Dean gonna be alright?” Sam asks wide-eyed as John lays his older son down on the bed and tucks him in tight. The kid is out like a light, didn’t so much as stir when John undressed him and kept right on sleeping as John lowered him into the bathtub to heat him up. He had to hold Dean’s head to keep him from going under. Skinny kid like that, not much to keep him afloat. And how is he still so damn skinny? His chest is caved in, for Christ’s sake! But at least he’s finally stopped shivering. Sweet Jesus, when Sam came running home - alone! - and said he couldn’t wake Dean up, John had thought…
Why does the kid keep doing this to him?
“He’ll be fine,” John assures Sam. “You did good to come get me.”
“I only got lost once,” Sam says, proud voice wavering.
Jesus. John closes his eyes and runs a hand over his face. “You did good,” he repeats. “And don’t worry about Dean, he’s just a little tired.”
“’Cause he can’t sleep when it’s night?”
John frowns. “What?”
“He can’t sleep ‘cause he gets nightmares,” Sam says, reaching up to pet Dean’s cheek. “Sometimes he cries.”
John stares at him, then at Dean’s face, flushed from the hot bath.
“Is it ‘cause he’s still sick?”
“´He’s not…” But that must be it. Dean’s been off ever since that damn strep got a hold of him. Lazy and listless. Distracted. He still isn’t eating properly, apparently he’s not sleeping and… He’s crying? Dean never cries.
“Nightmares about what?”
Sam’s teeth worry at his lip. “Mom? He keeps talking to Mom.”
It’s like a punch in the gut. “What do they talk about?” John asks, swallowing.
“Dunno. He just says he’s sorry a lot. And that he’ll keep me safe.” Sam’s lower lip starts wobbling again. John never noticed before how often the kid does that. “Are the monsters gonna come get me, Dad?”
“What?”
“Dean says, ‘I won’t let the monsters take Sammy’. When he’s talking to Mom. I don’t want the monsters to take me.” Sam’s big eyes are filling up with tears.
John sits back on the chair. Oh damn. “Come here.” He pulls Sam into his lap. “Dreams aren’t real, son. It’s just people seeing things when they’re sleeping. Like Dean sees Mom even though she’s not here, she’s in Heaven. You know that.”
“Oh.” Sam frowns. “If I go to sleep, can I talk to Mom?”
John rests his chin on Sam’s soft hair and closes his eye. “I don’t think so, kiddo,” he says, voice coming out slightly rough. “I’m sorry. Dean’s dreams are just in his head.” And it hurts, because what wouldn’t John give to be able to talk to Mary one last time, even if it was only in his own stupid head.
“So, there are no monsters?” Sam asks, snuggling closer. It’s strange, John can’t remember the last time he held his younger son like this. Dean usually takes care of that. The boys are constantly cuddling, day and night. Doesn’t matter how many times he tells Dean to stop babying his brother, five minutes later he’ll be hauling Sam around on his hip, or Sam will have crawled into Dean’s lap. And they still sleep all wrapped up, like they’ve done ever since…
“Don’t you worry about monsters, son. I’ll keep you safe,” he promises, because he can’t lie about what he knows is out there, not even to Sam.
“And Dean,” Sam says with blind faith. “Dean will keep me safe.”
“And Dean,” John agrees because if he knows one thing, it’s that Dean will protect his little brother with his life. It’s why John keeps pushing the boy. To make him stronger, faster. Better prepared. Like he himself wasn’t. Not even his military training and fighting in an actual goddamn war had prepared him for the horrifying dangers that lurked right at his doorstep. That stepped right into his home. His boys will never be caught unaware like that, he’s going to make sure of it.
“Come on, let’s leave your brother to rest. You hungry, son?”
What time is it anyway? Long past lunch. Did Dean already feed Sam before they went out? No, there was no time. He’d finished his homework, finally, and pulled Sam away from the TV. Bundled Sam up but forgot his own hat and gloves, the scatterbrain. So, nothing since breakfast. Which was six hours ago.
“I’ll make you a sandwich, how’s that sound?”
“Dean was gonna make me hot chocolate to warm me up,” Sam pouts.
“You’re plenty warm now,” John tells him but relents when Sam gazes up at him with those big puppy eyes of his. No wonder he’s got Dean wrapped around his finger. “Alright. Sandwich and hot chocolate.” He didn’t even know they had any cocoa but if Dean promised, they probably do. Dean wouldn’t lie to his brother.
Sam crawls into bed with Dean as soon as he’s finished his cocoa and John lets him, even if the boy is far too old to still be taking naps. When he checks in on them a little while later Sam is sitting up in bed with one of the picture books Dean got him from the school library, ‘reading’ aloud to Dean who is still asleep. Whatever the book is really about, Sam’s version has a hero named Dean that fights dragons. John chuckles as he imagines Dean’s mortification at hearing he then had to kiss the pretty princess, that is of course named Sam.
Sam looks up when John steps into the room, shifting even closer to Dean with a stubborn look on his face, like he expects John to tell him to get up. John checks Dean’s forehead. It feels warm, possibly even feverish. And it’s worrisome that the kid still hasn’t woken up. Can he possibly have been that tired or is it something else? Something more serious, his brain unhelpfully suggests but he pushes it away. No, it must be the damn strep still holding on to him.
John rubs a hand over his face. He really doesn’t have time for this. Bobby is only a few days driving away but considering how they parted… He’ll give Dean a couple of days, see if the kid can’t shake off whatever is ailing him.
By dinner time Dean is still out but he blinks his eyes open when John shakes him awake. “You gotta eat something, kiddo,” he says, stroking Dean’s sweaty hair. “Get your strength up.”
Dean struggles to sit up. He’s still pale except for rosy spots on each cheek. “Yes, sir,” he croaks, but he ends up eating less than half a sandwich and taking only a few sips of his milk. John tries to coax him to finish up but stops when he sees Dean gagging on the small bite he’s been chewing on for the last two minutes.
“You still tired, son?” John asks, testing Dean’s forehead against the back of his hand. Still slightly warm. It’s troubling.
“I’m okay,” Dean mumbles, clearly struggling to keep his head upright.
“Better have an early night,” John tells him. “See if you can’t sleep off whatever is bothering you. I’ll clean up here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I can read to you!” Sam announces, sliding off his chair and hurrying to Dean’s side.
Dean looks down at him. Even exhausted the smile for his little brother is instant. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’ve been practicing!”
John watches them make their way slowly into the bedroom, Dean leaning on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam struggling under his weight. “What you gonna read me then, squirt?” Dean is asking, panting slightly.
“Not a squirt!” Sam objects, but he’s giggling as they disappear through the door.
John sighs, finishing the rest of Dean’s sandwich. It’s good, if slightly dry and the lettuce and tomatoes are maybe not the freshest. Still, no reason to waste it.
Sam shakes John awake during the night, his pjs damp and stinking. He looks on, eyes wide, as John changes the sheets. Dean never even wakes up.
John hesitates before selecting the last number. He doesn’t really expect her to be available, but only a few minutes go by after the receptionist tells him to wait before Dr. Whyler picks up.
“Hi, doc,” he says. “I don’t know if you remember me but…” And then he has to pause. Who was he again? Right. “My name is James Hetfield, I was there a few weeks ago with my two boys.”
“I remember you, Mr. Hetfield. You left in a hurry.”
He clutches the phone tight. “I’m sorry. I was… Doesn’t matter. I need to ask you about Dean, what you said about Dean.”
“I don’t have his file in front of me, Mr. Hetfield, but I do remember some of it. Strep, flu, pneumonia. Malnutrition. Dental problems. Your boy was very sick and you didn’t let us finish treating him.”
John bites his tongue. After all, she’s right. “No. No, I didn’t. But I got him antibiotics and vitamins. And I had his teeth fixed.”
“That’s a start,” she says, not sounding too impressed. “So why are you calling?”
“He’s still… He’s no good, doc. He’s been tired and weak, with no appetite. And I remember you said, you talked about depression? Kid’s been down. Like the only thing that gets a smile out of him is his brother and even then it’s hardly at all. And now he’s sick again with a fever. Can’t keep him awake, he’s sleeping day and night and … He wet the bed. Kid’s eight years old! And-”
“Mr. Hetfield, listen to me,” she interrupts. “You need to bring him in. Right now!”
The sound of Dean’s labored breathing is suddenly very loud in the room. “We’re not at home right now,” John lies. “I had to take another business trip.”
“Then you bring him to the nearest hospital, and you tell them exactly what’s been going on.”
“But-” he starts but she cuts him off again, her voice firm and serious.
“Remember the life-threatening part, Mr. Hetfield? That’s what’s happening, right now. Do you understand me?”
“I understand,” he says even if he doesn’t. Dean’s fever isn’t even that high. He just can’t seem to keep awake.
“When you get there, have them call me and I’ll bring them up to speed.” As if she can tell what he’s thinking she quickly adds, “Mr. Hetfield, right now my only concern is for them to treat your son as quickly and accurately as possible. The only information I will share is medical. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” he repeats, relieved. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Get your son to the hospital. Now.”
John hangs up and stares blindly out the window. There’s a poltergeist he needs to take care of and then Harvelle called last night, saying he might have a lead on the demon and...
Goddammit!
John scrubs a hand over his face. He’s so tired, he can hardly think straight. Where is the nearest hospital anyway? They’re in some punk ass town he doesn’t even remember the name off, were just supposed to stop overnight and now they’ve been here for three days because of Dean. Meanwhile that damn poltergeist has already killed two more people.
He looks over to the bed. Sam is playing with Dean’s plastic soldiers, using the dips and hills of the comforter as landscape. Dean is asleep, mouth open, breath rattling slightly in his throat. Hair dark at the hairline. He’s only wearing a t-shirt. John put towels underneath him after the second accident. Dean didn’t even notice.
“Sam, get dressed. We need to go.”
Sam looks up, shocked, one small hand shooting out to grab Dean’s unresponsive fingers. “We’re leaving Dean? I’m not leaving Dean!”
“We’re not leaving him,” John dismisses as he starts shuffling clothes into their duffle bags. “We’re taking him to the hospital.”
“I’m not leaving him at the hospital!” Sam says, sounding hysterical and John stops to look at him. The kid’s eyes are filling with tears but the stubborn look on his face, and the protective way he’s now clutching Dean’s hand makes John feel strangely proud. Still, where the hell is this coming from?
“Sammy,” he says, keeping his voice as calm as he can manage. “We’re not leaving Dean. I’m not leaving either of you. Okay? Now get dressed.”
Sam doesn’t look convinced but after a while he nods and slips out of bed. He’s already wearing socks and a t-shirt so it’s just a matter of exchanging his pj bottoms for jeans and putting on a shirt. He keeps shooting Dean glances, huffing in annoyance when his zipper gets stuck. John sighs and zips up the second bag before helping Sam with his pants and buttoning up his shirt. He thought Dean had already taught Sam all this.
He doesn’t bother dressing Dean, just wraps him up in the comforter and lifts him out of bed. Dean’s eyes blink open for a moment, gazing at John in confusion, before closing again. He’s totally limp, his head lolling against John’s chest, and for the first time the words ‘life-threatening’ really register in John’s mind. She can’t really mean… He’s just a kid! It’s just a stupid case of strep. She can’t really mean life-threatening?
“What’s wrong with Dean?” Sam says as he climbs into the back seat, arranging Dean’s head carefully in his lap before strapping in. “Is he gonna die?” he adds in a small voice.
“Of course not!” John snaps. “Dean will be fine,” he adds in a softer tone when he hears Sam’s breath hitch.
Sam sniffles. He strokes Dean’s hair, his lower lip trembling. “I love you,” he whispers and kisses Dean’s forehead.
John swallows the lump in his throat and kicks down the pedal, the Impala spitting up gravel as they speed out of the parking lot.
Dean wakes up flailing in panic. There are bright lights stabbing his eyes and he can’t breathe! He hears alarms go off, high-pitched screeching that grows ever louder as he fights against the hands holding him down. Someone is telling him he needs to calm down, that they’re going to remove the tube, but all he really understands is that he doesn’t know those voices, he doesn’t know the hands holding him and none of the faces staring down at him look even remotely familiar.
It isn’t until he hears a familiar voice yell, “Dean!” that he stops thrashing, if only so he can pinpoint where it’s coming from. Turns out he doesn’t need to, Sammy climbs into bed and throws his small arms around Dean’s neck, hugging him tight. It feels like someone stabbed him in the chest, and Dean’s eyes roll back in his head from the agony.
“It’s okay, Dean, I’m here,” Sammy says, voice suspiciously wet, and Dean wants to hit whoever put those tears in his little brother’s throat. “I’m here, and Dad’s here, and you’re gonna be okay.”
Dean blinks up through a whisp of sandy hair, his vision blurry from the tears in his eyes. ‘What’s happening?’ he wants to ask, but there’s still something blocking his throat, and he still can’t breathe! He fumbles at his mouth, finding it stuffed full of plastic and panic seizes him again.
“Sam, get out of the way,” he hears Dad says, and then Sammy’s lifted off before Dean can grab onto him. A woman’s head appears above him, and through the blood rushing in his ears he hears her say something about him needing to cough so he does, coughs hard enough that his chest seizes up while he’s busy choking on the tube as it’s pulled out of his throat.
The air that finally rushes in tastes heavenly, but it also makes him cough again and this time the pain in his chest almost makes him black out.
“Easy,” the lady - doctor? nurse? - says, helping him sit up. “Try and breathe slowly. I know it hurts, sweetie. You’ve got a couple of broken ribs from the CPR. Honey, look at me. Breathe with me. In, out. In, out. Good. You’re doing great.” She lifts away the hospital gown, putting a stethoscope to his chest and back to listen, smiling at him before lowering him back down on the pillow. “Just keep on breathing, just like that.”
He pants, slower now that it doesn’t feel like someone’s stabbing him with a stake. “Sammy,” he rasps, his voice so hoarse and scratchy he can hardly hear himself but Sammy is instantly there, his weight shifting from the bottom of the bed where Dad must have yanked him and crawling hesitantly until he is hovering on his knees, looking down at Dean with tears in his eyes. Dean breathes out in relief. Sammy is okay. He lifts his arm with considerable effort and Sammy instantly slips into the hollow of his armpit, head coming to rest on Dean’s shoulder, his small hand stroking Dean’s chest carefully. For the first time since he woke up, Dean relaxes.
He hears the lady doctor talking and then Dad’s familiar rumble of a voice answering, sounding hesitant and anxious. Dean has never heard him sound like that before. Something must be really wrong. The machines start beeping again and suddenly everyone is back, staring down at him. The doctor is talking in a soothing tone, telling him everything is alright and that he’s going to be fine but everything is clearly not alright or they wouldn’t be here and he keeps waiting for Dad to yell at him and…
“Don’t be scared, De,” Sammy says into his ear, breath warming Dean’s neck. “You were really sick but you’re better now.”
If this is better, how bad was he before? Because he feels absolutely awful. But he doesn’t want to scare Sammy so he forces himself to breathe slower. “Okay,” he croaks. “Okay, Sammy.”
“Dean,” the lady says, smiling. “Glad to finally meet you. I’m Dr. Conway.” She ruffles Sam’s hair. “Your little brother’s been taking real good care of you.”
Dean puts his hand over Sammy’s ear, pressing the other down into his chest, even if it hurts. “Am I dying?” he whispers.
Her smile softens into something that reminds him so much of Mom he wants to cry. “No, sweetie. You’ve just been very sick. We had to keep you asleep for a while because your body was very tired but your brother is right, you are much better now.”
‘Don’t feel better,’ he wants to say, but just then Dad comes and lays a warm hand on the top of his head, looking down at him with eyes that shine weirdly wet.
“How you doing, kiddo?” he asks, and Dean automatically rasps, “I’m okay.” His Dad’s wide smile is enough to make him actually feel a little bit better, if only because whatever made Dad sound so strange before seems to be gone now.
“Good. That’s good to hear, son.”
“He’ll be weak for a while,” Dr. Conway says, and Dean winces. Dad nods but Dean can see the worry in his eyes. The impatience. “But, barring complications, he should be over the worst. For now.”
“For now?” Dad says, straightening up, and then they’re moving away to a corner of the room, voice lowered as they talk, low enough that Dean can’t hear them.
“Did you see Mom?” Sammy asks, and Dean lifts his hand from Sammy’s ear, burying his fingers in the too long hair instead.
“What?” he says, confused.
“Did you see Mom? In your dreams?”
Dean shakes his head. “I can’t remember.”
“Oh.” Sammy sounds disappointed. “I bet you did,” he adds after a while, his voice bright with conviction. “I bet she told you to say hello.”
Dean swallows. “I bet she did,” he agrees. He’s feeling tired, and he closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of Sammy’s hair that somehow manages to overpower the sickening smell of antiseptic and cabbage that lingers in the air. Sammy smells like home. Like the Impala, and baby shampoo and greasy diners.
“De?” Sammy says, his small voice far away. “Don’t go away again.”
“I won’t,” Dean promises and falls asleep.
This time John isn’t taking any chances, no matter that it’s driving him up the wall to wait for Dean to recover enough for them to be able to leave. They’re racking up a hospital bill the size of Texas but it’s not like John’s going to pay. By the time they realize John is not actually who he says he is and that the credit card he’s wielding doesn’t actually have any funds behind it, he’ll be long gone. Hopefully. He’s getting anxious though, he’s never stopped for this long within the government’s radar and if it wasn’t for Bobby (to whom he owes the biggest apology, or at least a beer) stepping into the role of his insurance agent, they’d have been forced to make a run for it long ago.
Dean is already moving around a bit but he gets tired easily, and the doctors seem to still be worried about his heart. His heart, for god’s sake! The kid is eight years old, and he had a freaking heart attack!
At first, when Sam yelled in the backseat and John saw Dean shaking in the rearview mirror, he had thought Dean was having a seizure. He’d yanked the Impala to the side of the road and screeched to a halt, the sharp movement making Dean slip out of Sam’s clutches and roll onto the floor. By the time John pulled him out, Dean had stopped breathing.
Jesus! John’s never been as scared in his life. Sam was crying so hard he was screaming and John had to yell at him to shut up so he could hear if Dean’s heart was beating. It wasn’t. John had almost thrown up when he’d heard Dean’s ribs crack under his clenched fists but he hadn’t dared stop the compressions until Dean finally drew a breath and coughed weakly, his eyes fluttering open for only a few seconds before sliding closed again.
He'd kept Dean in the front seat, head in his lap, while he sped the rest of the way to the hospital, with Sam crying quietly in the backseat.
Rheumatic fever, they’d said. Caused by untreated strep throat. But I did treat it, John wanted to tell them. Except, what if those antibiotics he bought under the counter were the wrong ones? What if it hadn’t been enough? What if he had simply been too late?
What does it mean, he’d asked, and the answers made him want to hit something. How can an eight-year-old kid have heart problems? How can they sit there and tell him his son’s heart might be damaged for life? That even if isn’t, it could take months for the inflammation to go down? And even then it’s just as likely that he’ll develop complications years, even decades later? He’s eight, he’s eight, he’s eight, goddammit! John wants to scream at them. Fucking fix him!
John leans against the wall and watches his older son shuffle his way across the floor, smiling tiredly at Sammy who is edging him on, laughing, treating it all like a game, and it feels hard to breathe.
“Mr. Hetfield,” says a voice and he turns around, fake smile automatically plastered on his lips until he sees the serious look in dr. Conway’s eyes. His face falls.
“What is wrong? He’s fine! Look at him,” he says, desperate, gesturing at Dean who has reached the bed and is lying down, panting, Sammy already crawling into his lap.
“Mr. Hetfield, we should sit down.”
“Oh God.” His knees suddenly feel weak. He can’t take any more bad news. “Is it his heart?” he asks as he sinks into a chair. “Is it damaged?”
“Actually,” she says, sitting down beside him, “Dean’s heart is looking much better. The swelling is going down, slowly. He’s still not out of the woods but I think we can safely say that the risk of another heart failure is minimum. At the moment.”
“Okay. Okay. At the moment.” John takes a deep breath. “But not permanently because…”
“Yes. Like we talked about. But that is years down the road. Which is what I want to discuss with you.” Her smile is brief and far from reassuring. “With rheumatic fever, especially if it’s had time to work its damage, the road to recovery is very long. One of the necessary treatments is antibiotics. Dean will have to be on them for a very long time or this might happen again.”
“Okay,” John says slowly. This time he’ll have to make sure to steal the right kind. “How long?”
“At least ten years.”
He stares at her. “You’re joking,” he finally forces out. “You’re… What?”
“I know this is a shock, Mr. Hetfield. And…” She pauses, breathing in deeply before continuing, her voice low. “I know your insurance is fake. It’s none of my business,” she says as he forces himself to breathe slowly, face frozen. “I have no interest in whether your bill gets paid or not. All I care about is Dean. But even if you might be able to cheat the system this time, you can’t keep it up for ten years.”
“So, what the hell am I supposed to do?” John hisses, fear spurring his anger. “I don’t know how…” The anger leaves him just as suddenly as it rushed in. “I can’t let my boy die,” he pleads.
“No. Dean’s fought way too hard to be killed by bureaucracy and a bad healthcare system,” she agrees, a hard glint in her eyes. “Which is why I’m talking to you, Mr. Hetfield. You need to find yourself a job with a health insurance. A steady job because Dean will have to be under surveillance until he is an adult. Do you understand?”
“But…”
“What is it you do now?”
He blinks at her. “Uhm, I’m…” The old lie about being an insurance agent dies on his lips. An insurance agent without an insurance? Not very likely. “I’m in sales.”
“Alright,” she says although she doesn’t look like she believes him. “I suggest you start looking for something local. No later than yesterday.”
John looks over at Dean who is already sitting up again, clearly contemplating walking another lap even if he’s still panting slightly and looks about ready to drop. John wants to scream in frustration. God, this isn’t fair! How is he supposed to… He can’t. He can’t just let whatever killed Mary go. But… Dean.
John swallows. “What… what would happen if… if I handed him over to the state?”
Dr. Conway looks at him, her mouth opening then closing again. “Mr. Hetfield,” she finally says. “There is no guarantee the state will provide your son with the treatment he needs.”
“But there’s a chance?”
“There is a very small chance and Dean has already used up a very large portion of luck.”
“I have a mission,” he starts and her face turns into one of disgust. Only for a second before it becomes neutral again but it’s clear what she thinks of his ‘mission’. “It’s life and death,” he adds stubbornly although he knows she will never understand.
“This is life and death, Mr. Hetfield,” she says coldly. “Your son’s life. Your son’s death.”
He flinches. “My wife. She was killed. I have to find whoever did it. I have to…”
“Mr. Hetfield. James,” she says, tone softening slightly. “You have a choice here. Your dead wife and soon a dead son. Or two alive sons. It’s that simple.”
It’s not, but she can’t understand that. It’s about more than Mary. It’s even about more than Dean. Can he choose his son’s life and forsake the lives of so many others he will not be able to help, to save? He looks over at Dean and finds Dean’s eyes staring back at him, wide with worry and vulnerability, like they always seem now. Like he’s waiting for something even worse to happen.
“Yes,” John says. “Thank you, doc.”
Dr. Conway nods and pats him on the hand before standing up and leaving the room. John takes a moment to just breathe before he stands up and walks over to where Dean is leaning against a chair, breathing heavily. He’s clearly exhausted but it’s not in Dean to give up. Never has been.
“Think that’s enough for now, son,” John says, catching Dean by the elbow when he wavers. “You’re still weak.” He can feel Dean flinch but when he glances down, Dean’s face shows nothing but exhaustion.
“We’ll come back tomorrow,” he tells Dean once he’s safely back in bed. “You rest now, kiddo. Sam, come on.”
“I don’t wanna leave,” Sam whines, grabbing hold of Dean’s hand. “I wanna stay here with Dean.”
“You know you can’t. You boys are way too big to share a bed anyway,” he adds with a smile at the nurse that comes in just then to check Dean’s vitals.
He expects Sam to object, he clings to Dean on the best of days, and sure enough he moves even closer to Dean, a stubborn look on his baby-soft face. What surprises John is the almost grief-stricken look in Dean’s eyes. He waits until the nurse has left before backtracking with a sigh. “Who am I kidding, you’ll probably still be joined at the hip when you’re forty.”
Sam’s face lights up in a grin, but it’s Dean, sagging with immense relief for a brief moment, before quickly masking it with stoic indifference, that makes John’s heart clench.
“Come on, Sam,” he says, voice slightly rough with emotion. “We need to let your brother rest.”
“Okay,” Sam pouts. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’ll come back when you ain’t tired.”
He slings his arms around Dean’s neck and Dean pulls him in so tight that Sam lets out a low squeak before hugging Dean back just as fiercely, mindless of Dean’s broken ribs. Dean sucks in a sharp breath but he doesn’t let go, just squeezes his eyes shut, his nose buried into Sam’s hair. His breathing is so shallow if John didn’t know better, he’d think Dean was panicking. They stay like that for so long that John starts to feel like an outsider, a voyeur, and he puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder, disturbed by the low tremor that travels up his arm, until he realizes it’s not Sam that is trembling but Dean. Kid must be more tired than he thought.
“Come on, Sam,” John says firmly. “We need to go.”
He pries Sam’s arms gently away from Dean’s neck, lifting the kid into his arms. Sam makes a small sound of protest but he must be tired as well because he cuddles closer, one hand fisting John’s jacket. Dean looks up then and the longing in his eyes as he watches John absently palm the back of Sam’s head, makes John even more determined to find a way out of this mess. He’s honestly not sure his boys would survive being separated. But he can’t just lay down his gun. He can’t.
“You get some rest, son,” he says and lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder, squeezing it in encouragement. Dean breathes out, and he bows his head, mouth turning downwards as if in disappointment. John pauses. Then he runs his palm gently up Dean’s neck and rubs the back of Dean’s head with his fingers. Dean’s eyes flutter shut, his lower lip trembles, and emotion swells in John’s throat. He steps closer and presses Dean to his stomach in as much of an embrace as he can manage with Sam rapidly falling asleep on his shoulder.
“We’ll be back,” he promises and feels a shudder run through Dean’s body. “You be good now.”
Dean nods, his eyes still closed. John pats his head before stepping away, noticing the way Dean’s head tilts to follow before he straightens up with a sigh, eyes blinking open but downcast, his mouth set in a tight line. Poor kid, he’s clearly done in.
As John is walking out the door, he glances back. Dean’s head is bowed, his shoulders slumped; he’s pulled the blanket up to his chest, but his hands lie slack on top of it, fingers slightly curled, like he’s too tired to make proper fists. He looks oddly small in that big white bed, like he’s shrinking, disappearing. John gets hit with this irrational fear that he will be gone when they come back the next day, having just faded away into nothing. Well, that’s not gonna happen. After all they’ve been through, John’s not going to let a damn sore throat take away his boy. No way in hell.
It takes him a week and by then Dean is ready to leave the hospital. Not a moment too soon, there’s another bill due and John is running out of fake credit cards. He used his last dollars to buy the antibiotics Dean will need for the next month.
Dean is still pale, and he seems anxious, but he manages to walk steadily on his own to the car once the nurse has wheeled him to the front doors. The hospital food, as awful as it looked and smelled, has added some much-needed meat to his bones. John hadn’t fully appreciated how thin his boy had gotten until the daylight hits his face, and John notices the slightly rounder cheeks and less prominent collarbones.
The tension that Dean has been visibly holding in his body every time John and Sam had to leave him at the hospital seems to leak out the moment Sam drags him into the back seat of the Impala. Like he’s finally home, which John guesses the car is now, after four years on the road. And isn’t that a sobering thought? Well, it won’t be much longer now. Soon, Dean will have a home again, and Sam will get the home he never knew. John will make sure of it.
He eyes his boys in the rearview mirror as they drive out of town. Dean is sitting up but his and Sam’s hands are clasped tight across the bench. Seems Sam won’t let go of his brother, now he’s finally got him back. And man, has the little guy been a pain. Every waking moment they’re not at the hospital Sam’s whined about going back. It’s been nothing but Dean this, and Dean that, and, Christ, John’s happy his sons are close, but he’s exhausted. And not just because his younger son has seemingly endless energy. John had grown so used to Dean keeping Sam occupied, reading to him, playing with him, taking him out for walks or to play games, making him snacks. Jeez, the kid is hungry all the time. No wonder they kept running out of food if Dean’s been feeding him every time he asks for something.
They’ve been driving for a while when Dean asks timidly, “Where we going? Sir.”
“Bobby’s.” John glances in the rearview mirror. Dean is staring out the window, biting his lower lip.
“I gotta stay?” he asks, his voice so quiet that for a moment John isn’t sure he heard right.
“For a while,” John answers, wondering what is making Dean look so subdued all of a sudden. He looks over at Sam who has fallen asleep, head resting against the window, having woken up far too early with the excitement of Dean finally coming home.
“Please, Dad,” Dean says suddenly, his breath hitching. “He’s too little.”
John frowns. “Sam? Too little for what?”
“To be left on his own.” Dean wipes his nose on the sleeve of his jacket. “I can still take care of him. I can.” His shoulders start shaking. “Please, Dad. Please.”
Whoa. What the hell is happening? “Dean, come on up front. Just crawl over the back.” Not really safe while they’re driving but it’s raining heavily and he’d rather the boy not get soaked.
Dean looks over at Sam then carefully loses his brother’s grip on his hand, unfastens his seatbelt and climbs over into the front seat. He’s panting as he slides down, but if it’s from the exertion or because he’s trying not to cry is hard to tell.
“Come here,” John says and reaches out, pulling him close to his side. Dean is shaking, his body stiff but he soon sags against John, like he used to do when he was Sam’s age. Before…
John clears his throat. “Dean-o, what is going on? Why do you think I’d leave Sam on his own? I got you to look after him, don’t I?”
“You- you said,” Dean hiccups, “I’m to stay with Bobby.”
“I thought you liked Bobby?” John asks confused.
“But I can still take care of Sammy! I can!” And now Dean’s openly crying, his small body shaking with sobs.
“Dean, I know you can,” John says gently, hugging him tighter, forgetting momentarily about Dean’s broken ribs but loosening his grip instantly when he hears Dean suck in his breath. “Just maybe not right now.”
“That, that why you asked that lady doctor if, if you could hand me over to, to…? I don’t know who, but she got real mad.”
Ah. Damn. He’d heard that. “I’m sorry, son,” John says with honest regret. “It was a stupid thing to say, I was just worried.”
Dean looks up, eyes wide in his tearstained face. “About me?”
“Yeah, kiddo, about you. Because I want you to get better and I thought…” John sighs. “Doesn’t matter, but I promise you, I’m not leaving you with Bobby or anyone. Maybe for a few days sometimes because I can see now it’s no good leaving you boys alone for such a long time. That was my mistake. It won’t happen again. But I am not abandoning you or Sam. I promise. Okay?”
Dean sniffles. “Okay.”
“What would I do without my big boy, huh?” John says with a smile, giving Dean a small shake. “Who’d look after Sammy?”
Dean tries for a smile, but he’s still trembling, so John pulls him a little closer, palming his head, stroking over the hair that is getting far too long. Dean’s eyes close, his breath hitching. John should tell him to scoot back and put on his seatbelt. Instead, he drives on, stroking Dean’s hair, until he falls asleep in his lap and even then he can’t make himself stop, relishing the soft pat-pat-pat of Dean’s heart beating steady under his fingertips.
“This is damn risky,” Bobby says for the fifth time, giving Dean a strained smile before turning back to glaring at John. They haven’t started yelling yet but Dean can tell it won’t be long until one or both of them loses their temper. Sometimes he wonders why Bobby keeps taking them in when he and Dad always end up fighting.
“So is doing nothing,” John snaps. He’s mixing up some herbs and bones and other stuff in a bowl. It smells horrible. Dean really hopes he doesn’t have to eat it.
“We should call someone who knows what the hell they’re doing,” Bobby tries. Again. “Witch stuff is tricky business.”
John huffs. “I’m not letting some goddamn witch mess up my boy.”
“I’m just sayin’…”
“No.”
Bobby throws up his hands in frustration. “Don’t come whining to me when the boy starts sprouting warts all over his body.” He catches himself and smiles at Dean. “I’m just kidding, son.”
“He’s not your son,” John mutters and Dean sees Bobby’s face turn red. He doesn’t say anything though, just stomps out of the kitchen and into the library where Sammy is pretending to read a book. Although Dean sometimes wonders if Sam maybe really can read already, he just likes making up stories more.
Dean sips his soda, legs kicking back and forth. He feels fine. Well, okay. Not too bad. He still gets tired just doing nothing, and sometimes his heart beats really loud. Like badum-badum-badum banging inside his chest. Not enough to hurt but… it’s scary. But he’ll get better. Dad says so. He just needs Dean to get better a bit quicker, that’s all, so they can go back to hunting whatever killed Mom. That’s what this is about.
“Okay,” Dad says, and Dean’s head snaps up. “I think that’s it.”
“You better be damn sure!” Bobby yells from the living room.
“Stop your nagging and get in here,” John shouts back. “Grumpy old bastard.”
He throws Dean a grin and a wink, and Dean smiles automatically back even if his stomach is churning. “What do I have to do?” he asks, holding his head high.
“Nothing much. Just… hold out your arm. This is gonna sting a little.”
It stings a lot. Dean jerks in panic but Dad’s fingers are like vice, holding his arm so tight Dean can feel bruises forming underneath his fingertips. His eyes tear up and he starts to feel faint as he watches blood spring up from the cut and trickle down into the bowl.
“That’s enough,” Bobby hisses and wraps a tea towel around Dean’s arm. Dean has to bite his lip not to whimper. He thinks he might throw up. “Now do your little spell and get this over with.”
“Hold your horses.”
Dad wipes the knife on the tea towel and Dean gags, his stomach threatening to crawl up into his throat. Dad glances at him but clearly decides there’s no real danger and starts stirring the concoction. It looks disgusting and Dean really hopes he doesn’t have to eat it. When Dad dips his fingers in the gunk and starts painting symbols on the floor, Dean breathes out in relief. Bobby hovers over Dad’s shoulder, pointing out flaws in his design until Dean thinks Dad might just slug him. Finally it’s done and Dad puts the bowl aside, lights the five candles that form a pentagon around the symbols, and opens his journal.
Dean holds his breath as Dad starts chanting. He feels a small hand slip into his and looks down to see Sammy stare wide-eyed at what’s happening. Dean is torn between wanting to drag him out of there or watch what happens. Before he can make up his mind Bobby snatches Sammy up, the shaken look on his face saying he, just as Dad, had forgotten Sammy was there.
“Stay here,” Bobby tells Dean and hurries out of the room and up the stairs with Sammy complaining the whole way that he wants to see.
Dean swallows. The candles have begun to smoke, the flames turning high and so blindingly white Dean has to squint to shield his eyes. Suddenly his heart jumps in his chest. He folds from the shock, slamming his hand to his chest, forgetting his still healing ribs. He gasps from the sharp pain, then again when his heart starts speeding up, beating faster and faster until he feels so dizzy he falls down on his knees and then tumbles over, trying and failing to pull air into his lungs. He’s aware of Bobby shouting, of being pulled into strong arms and then laid down flat, Bobby screaming at Dad to stop before he covers Dean’s mouth with his own and blows hot air tasting of whiskey and tobacco down his throat. It doesn’t do anything, Dean’s heart keeps speeding up, and his lungs are still refusing to pull in any air. The last thing he hears before he passes out is the silence of his heart coming to a stop.
He comes to, coughing, his lungs burning from lack of oxygen. Dad is cradling him in his arms, a manic look in his eyes that turns into relief when Dean continues breathing, sucking in air like he’d been drowning. There’s a bruise forming on Dad’s jaw that wasn’t there last Dean saw and when he looks over, Bobby is cradling his hand, cursing up a blue streak.
“You alright, son?” John rasps, his voice trembling. He crushes Dean to his chest when he nods. “Jesus, you scared me. Goddammit.”
“This better have worked, you goddamn crazy sumbitch!” Bobby hisses, flexing his fingers.
“It will,” Dad says. “I’ll have him checked out but it will. I’m sure. It worked.”
“You knew this was gonna happen?” Bobby growls. He sounds even angrier than usual. In fact, he sounds like he’s about to get his shotgun and shoot Dad in the head. “You knew he would d-”
He cuts himself off at the last minute but Dean gets it anyway. Die. He’d died. Actually died. What? But… he didn’t even get to see Mom.
He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until Dad start saying, “Sshh, it’s alright. Everything is gonna be alright. Please, Dean, don’t… Oh jeez.” And then Dad buries his face in Dean’s hair, breath coming in shaky gulps as he rocks Dean in his arms.
“You damn well could have killed him! For good!”
John swallows his mouthful of whiskey and nods. He knows.
“And what the hell for? He was gonna get better on his damn own!”
John looks up. “No. He wasn’t. It was a ten year treatment, Bobby. Minimum. And even then… I couldn’t risk it.”
“But you could risk this?” Bobby shakes his head in disgust. “I could damn well throttle you!”
“You already gave me a damn shiner,” John grumbles, pouring himself another drink.
At least Bobby held off until John finished the ritual, although it was a close call. In fact, he’s not sure Bobby knew he’d already read the last word when he laid one on him. On the other hand, John’s not sure he could have finished if he’d realized what was actually happening to Dean behind his back, that it wasn’t just Bobby having hysterics and overreacting, like always.
Jesus, when he saw his boy lying lifeless with no pulse, no breathing.... And the hell of it is, he should have known. Renascentia. It said so right there in the spell’s title. What the hell did he think ‘rebirth’ meant? He could fucking throttle himself.
“Besides, he’s gonna be fine,” he tells himself more than Bobby, taking another deep gulp. “Kid’s a trooper.”
Bobby glares at him then snatched the bottle out of his hands and pours himself a double, drinking it down in three gulps before filling his glass again. “That boy is gonna grow up hating your guts,” he grumbles.
That stings. Not that John believes it. Sam is already turning into a stubborn little rebel but Dean… Dean looks up to his dad. Dean loves him with all his being. It actually scares John sometimes how much Dean seems to worship him. Even if it does make his job a whole lot easier. “As long as he grows up, I can live with that,” John murmurs.
Bobby harrumphs. “You’re a crappy liar and a bastard.”
“I can live with that too,” John says and half-smiles when Bobby rolls his eyes. “This the best whiskey you got? We’re damn well celebrating.”
“One more minute, and we’d be drinking that boy’s eulogy.”
John closes his eyes. “Bobby…”
“I’m going to bed.”
Bobby heaves himself up from his chair. He looks suddenly so much older than his … well, whatever he is. Forty? John suddenly realizes he has no idea. He sure feels a lot older himself than his thirty-two years.
“Got an appointment for Dean at the hospital tomorrow,” John says out loud, “and then we’ll be leaving for Nebraska if all’s good. Harvelle’s got news, he thinks.”
Bobby stops, frowning at him over his shoulder. “The boys could stay here. Hell, they should stay here. They’ve been through enough for now. Give them a goddamn break, John.”
John shakes his head. “We need to keep moving. Whatever killed Mary, it did it in Sam’s goddamn nursery. For all I know, he was the target.”
Bobby’s eyebrows climb up under his cap. “A baby? Why the hell would they want to kill a baby?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Until then, I can’t risk it. Not even with you.”
“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence,” Bobby mutters.
John sighs. “You know that’s not what I mean. I trust you with my life.”
Bobby harrumphs. “Just not your sons’ lives.”
“No, I do. Damnit, Bobby, you know I damn well do. But I can’t…” John stares down into his glass. “They’re all I’ve got left. And Dean, he… he keeps me grounded.”
“He shouldn’t be keeping you anything!” Bobby yells. “He should be out there with other snotnosed kids, playing baseball and skinning his knobbly knees. And you goddamn know it.”
John doesn’t say anything, and after a moment Bobby shakes his head with a huff and leaves. John sits staring into his glass for a long time before jerking awake. He gulps down the rest of his whiskey and slams the glass down on the table before heaving himself up with some difficulty. Damn, he’s tired. And drunk. But mostly tired.
It takes effort to haul himself upstairs. Bobby’s guest room has two beds and the boys are dead asleep in the one they share, arms tight around each other. As entwined as he and Mary used to sleep during their first years. Before he screwed things up with his damn drinking and short temper. They still slept together, still had sex and intimacy, and, God, he loved her so damn much, and he knows she loved him back, but it was different. He’d even moved out at one point, just to give them both some space. Left her with Sam still crying through the nights, and when he’d returned, more out of loneliness than because he felt guilty, she’d looked so exhausted, like she hadn’t slept in days. Not his proudest moment.
On nights like tonight, those are the moments he remembers. The hard ones. The bad ones. The ones he wishes he could forget. Because truth is their marriage wasn’t perfect, no matter what he tries to tell himself. They weren’t perfect. Sometimes he wonders if they were even happy. Wonders how long she would have put up with him if she hadn’t…
“Dad?”
Dean’s eyes glitter in the moonlight, wide and worried and so much like Mary’s that there are times John can’t even look at him for fear of breaking down.
“Everything’s alright, son,” John murmurs and stumbles to the other bed to unlace his shoes. “I’m just going to bed. Go back to sleep.”
“Okay.”
Dean doesn’t sound convinced, but he obediently closes his eyes. After a moment he pulls Sam closer, wrapping his arms protectively around him. Sam makes a small noise of complaint but soon settles down, burying his face in Dean’s neck.
Despite the alcohol making him feel slightly dizzy, John stays awake for almost an hour, just watching his boys sleep.
“I really don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Hammett. I can’t find anything wrong with your son that explains him having chest pains. His heart looks fine. Heartrate is good, blood pressure absolutely normal. Most likely it was just indigestions. Even kids can get heartburn.”
The doctor smiles condescendingly and ruffles Dean’s hair. Dean doesn’t react. He is being worryingly still, staring ahead with a blank expression in his face. His naked chest seems unnaturally white under the harsh lights, the protruding ribs casting shadows upon his skin. “He could use to add a few pounds but that’s it.”
“The tests…”
“Will take a couple of days. We will call you with the results but to be honest, I very much doubt we will find anything.” The look on the doctor’s face says what he thinks of this whole situation and John in particular. Hysterical, overprotective, the kind of parent he shakes his head at as soon as they turn their backs. John would love to smack him.
“I just really need to be sure,” he says instead. “There is family history. My wife…” He looks away feeling his cheeks burn like they always do when he uses Mary’s death to embellish his lies.
“I understand,” the doctor says, but he’s starting to look bored. “Never hurts to be thorough. Like I said, we’ll call you.”
“Thank you. Dean, put your shirt back on. We’re leaving.”
Dean looks up, startled, like he’s been miles away. He fumbles for his t-shirt and it takes him a couple of tries to put it on right. John tries not to be impatient but he is starting to get really sick of hospitals, and he just wants to get out of there and on the road to Nebraska.
He hadn’t really considered what Dean might be feeling, until he hears him breathe out in relief as soon as they step outside the building. “You heard the doc, you’re fine,” John reminds him, in case Dean is still worried.
Dean nods, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s being uncharacteristically quiet, even for him. Even with Sam, which is a lot more worrying, because he might not have Sam’s mouthiness, but he usually has plenty of comebacks and jokes to keep his little brother entertained. Only emotion he’s really shown was an obvious unease at leaving Sam at Bobby’s while they ran into town to have the tests done. He’d hugged Sam tight before they left; even when Sam started to struggle Dean held on, until Sam relaxed and continued to hug him back. They’d looked like two orphans clinging to each other for dear life, and again John got this feeling of being excluded, as if in that moment they couldn’t even remember he existed.
They’re halfway to Nebraska with Sammy sleeping in the backseat, when Dean finally gathers the courage to say, “I’m still weak.”
“Hmh?” Dad glances over, the fingers of one hand tapping the wheel. “What’s that?”
“I’m still weak,” Dean repeats, a little louder. “I’m trying but… I still feel tired. I’m sorry.”
He expects Dad to frown in disappointment, but he just shakes his head. “Son, the spell just fixed the inflammation. The swelling of your heart muscles,” he clarifies when Dean just blinks at him. Oh, so that’s what was wrong with him. “You feel weak because the rest of your body still took a damn beating. It just takes time.”
“Because I’m too skinny?” Dean guesses, rubbing at his chest. He knows he is, kids at school keep calling him names, like Boney M. and Toothpick, but he hadn’t realized it could make you sick.
“Well, it sure don’t help,” Dad mutters.
“I’ll eat more,” Dean promises. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, he’s hungry all the time, it’s just that he can’t stop calculating in his head how to make the food last longer in case…
“You do that. And we need to up your exercise regime. Build up those muscles.”
Dad sends him a quick smile, and Dean smiles automatically back while inside his stomach is churning. He hates exercising. It makes him hurt, all over his body, but also when breathing, in his throat, and inside his chest, and afterwards he’s so tired he just wants to collapse, somewhere Dad and Sammy can’t find him. But Dad is right. He has to get stronger, faster, build up his stamina so he can protect Sammy and go on hunts with Dad, and not just as a lookout or bait, but shooting things, saving people. Like Dad does. He wants to be the hero Sammy thinks he is. More than anything, he wants to be Sammy’s hero.
“Yes, sir.”
Dad shoots him another smile, but Dean’s eyes are on the road, watching the yellow lines disappear under the car, so fast it feels like they’re flying.
When John hears from Bobby that Dean’s heart finally gave out, almost twenty years later, for a moment it’s like he’s back, kneeling on that icy road, breaking Dean’s ribs with the force of his desperate fists. It takes every ounce of his will not to pick up the phone and call, just to hear Dean’s voice.
fin
“Young man, you shouldn’t sleep out here,” a voice says as someone shakes him gently. Dean jerks awake. He’s shivering so badly he can hardly breathe. “Hey, you alright, son? Where are your parents?”
He looks up into the concerned watery eyes of a man old enough to be his great-grandfather, if he had one. The man glances around, lips turning thin with anger at whatever neglectful parent he assumes let their boy sleep outside in the cold.
Boy. Singular.
Dean’s alone.
He jumps up in panic but instantly falls over, his legs gone numb, and his head swimming. “Sammy,” he croaks out as he grabs hold of the bench and tries to heave himself up to no avail. “Sammy!”
“Whoa there!”
The man grabs Dean’s jacket by the shoulder and hauls him to his feet but the minute he lets go Dean starts swaying and he ends up clutching the man’s arm while looking frantically around the playground.
“My little brother!” he sobs. “I need to… Sammy!”
“Dean! There you are!”
Dean freezes. Dad is going to kill him when he finds out he lost Sammy. His one job and he couldn’t even… He turns his head, and the relief is so instant he collapses, the old man fumbling and failing to catch him before he hits the ground.
Dad is stalking toward them, Sammy hoisted up on his arm. There’s a look of concern on Dad’s face, of worry and relief, but Dean knows his Dad. Behind that mask he is furious. Dean doesn’t care. He’ll take his punishment. All that matters is that Sammy is here, and he’s safe, and Dean didn’t get him lost or taken or killed.
“Thank you, sir, so much for finding him,” Dad is saying as he quickly lowers Sammy to the ground and pulls Dean into his arms. It’s a show, a play for the audience, Dean knows, but for a moment he allows himself to pretend. To be small and wanted, like the boy the old man thinks he is. “Kid’s supposed to be sick in bed,” he hears his dad lie. “He wandered out. Been searching for him for over an hour.”
“He was dead asleep on the bench,” the old man says, reaching out to ruffle Dean’s hair. “You better take him home and warm him up. Could catch his death, sleeping out here. Not even wearing a hat, are you, young man?”
Dean let Sammy have his beanie after he lost his own, some weeks ago. Dean was going to steal a new one out of the lost-and-found at school. Maybe some gloves too and a scarf. He just keeps forgetting.
The man and Dad are still talking, and Dad hasn’t shoved Dean away or reminded him that he’s a big boy now, not a baby, so he stays where he is, safe in the warm embrace of his father’s arms. He’s losing consciousness fast, hardly even noticing Sammy forcing his way between Dad’s arms and chest to snuggle up to his brother.
“Well, I better get him home,” Dean hears Dad say and then, “Can you walk, kiddo?” but Dean is too tired to answer or even open his eyes.
After a moment Dad sighs and stands up with a groan, both boys clutched in his arms, Sammy’s hand fisted in the back of Dean’s jacket, Dean limp as a ragdoll. Dad’s voice is a rumble under Dean’s ear, where it’s pressed against Dad’s chest, as he thanks the man and tells him goodbye, take care and thank you again. Dean is waiting for that voice to turn hard with disappointment the moment they’re out of earshot, right before he’ll be shaken awake and told to toughen up, to walk like a big boy and not be whatever he is right now. A baby, a wimp, a burden. Weak. He falls asleep.
“Is Dean gonna be alright?” Sam asks wide-eyed as John lays his older son down on the bed and tucks him in tight. The kid is out like a light, didn’t so much as stir when John undressed him and kept right on sleeping as John lowered him into the bathtub to heat him up. He had to hold Dean’s head to keep him from going under. Skinny kid like that, not much to keep him afloat. And how is he still so damn skinny? His chest is caved in, for Christ’s sake! But at least he’s finally stopped shivering. Sweet Jesus, when Sam came running home - alone! - and said he couldn’t wake Dean up, John had thought…
Why does the kid keep doing this to him?
“He’ll be fine,” John assures Sam. “You did good to come get me.”
“I only got lost once,” Sam says, proud voice wavering.
Jesus. John closes his eyes and runs a hand over his face. “You did good,” he repeats. “And don’t worry about Dean, he’s just a little tired.”
“’Cause he can’t sleep when it’s night?”
John frowns. “What?”
“He can’t sleep ‘cause he gets nightmares,” Sam says, reaching up to pet Dean’s cheek. “Sometimes he cries.”
John stares at him, then at Dean’s face, flushed from the hot bath.
“Is it ‘cause he’s still sick?”
“´He’s not…” But that must be it. Dean’s been off ever since that damn strep got a hold of him. Lazy and listless. Distracted. He still isn’t eating properly, apparently he’s not sleeping and… He’s crying? Dean never cries.
“Nightmares about what?”
Sam’s teeth worry at his lip. “Mom? He keeps talking to Mom.”
It’s like a punch in the gut. “What do they talk about?” John asks, swallowing.
“Dunno. He just says he’s sorry a lot. And that he’ll keep me safe.” Sam’s lower lip starts wobbling again. John never noticed before how often the kid does that. “Are the monsters gonna come get me, Dad?”
“What?”
“Dean says, ‘I won’t let the monsters take Sammy’. When he’s talking to Mom. I don’t want the monsters to take me.” Sam’s big eyes are filling up with tears.
John sits back on the chair. Oh damn. “Come here.” He pulls Sam into his lap. “Dreams aren’t real, son. It’s just people seeing things when they’re sleeping. Like Dean sees Mom even though she’s not here, she’s in Heaven. You know that.”
“Oh.” Sam frowns. “If I go to sleep, can I talk to Mom?”
John rests his chin on Sam’s soft hair and closes his eye. “I don’t think so, kiddo,” he says, voice coming out slightly rough. “I’m sorry. Dean’s dreams are just in his head.” And it hurts, because what wouldn’t John give to be able to talk to Mary one last time, even if it was only in his own stupid head.
“So, there are no monsters?” Sam asks, snuggling closer. It’s strange, John can’t remember the last time he held his younger son like this. Dean usually takes care of that. The boys are constantly cuddling, day and night. Doesn’t matter how many times he tells Dean to stop babying his brother, five minutes later he’ll be hauling Sam around on his hip, or Sam will have crawled into Dean’s lap. And they still sleep all wrapped up, like they’ve done ever since…
“Don’t you worry about monsters, son. I’ll keep you safe,” he promises, because he can’t lie about what he knows is out there, not even to Sam.
“And Dean,” Sam says with blind faith. “Dean will keep me safe.”
“And Dean,” John agrees because if he knows one thing, it’s that Dean will protect his little brother with his life. It’s why John keeps pushing the boy. To make him stronger, faster. Better prepared. Like he himself wasn’t. Not even his military training and fighting in an actual goddamn war had prepared him for the horrifying dangers that lurked right at his doorstep. That stepped right into his home. His boys will never be caught unaware like that, he’s going to make sure of it.
“Come on, let’s leave your brother to rest. You hungry, son?”
What time is it anyway? Long past lunch. Did Dean already feed Sam before they went out? No, there was no time. He’d finished his homework, finally, and pulled Sam away from the TV. Bundled Sam up but forgot his own hat and gloves, the scatterbrain. So, nothing since breakfast. Which was six hours ago.
“I’ll make you a sandwich, how’s that sound?”
“Dean was gonna make me hot chocolate to warm me up,” Sam pouts.
“You’re plenty warm now,” John tells him but relents when Sam gazes up at him with those big puppy eyes of his. No wonder he’s got Dean wrapped around his finger. “Alright. Sandwich and hot chocolate.” He didn’t even know they had any cocoa but if Dean promised, they probably do. Dean wouldn’t lie to his brother.
Sam crawls into bed with Dean as soon as he’s finished his cocoa and John lets him, even if the boy is far too old to still be taking naps. When he checks in on them a little while later Sam is sitting up in bed with one of the picture books Dean got him from the school library, ‘reading’ aloud to Dean who is still asleep. Whatever the book is really about, Sam’s version has a hero named Dean that fights dragons. John chuckles as he imagines Dean’s mortification at hearing he then had to kiss the pretty princess, that is of course named Sam.
Sam looks up when John steps into the room, shifting even closer to Dean with a stubborn look on his face, like he expects John to tell him to get up. John checks Dean’s forehead. It feels warm, possibly even feverish. And it’s worrisome that the kid still hasn’t woken up. Can he possibly have been that tired or is it something else? Something more serious, his brain unhelpfully suggests but he pushes it away. No, it must be the damn strep still holding on to him.
John rubs a hand over his face. He really doesn’t have time for this. Bobby is only a few days driving away but considering how they parted… He’ll give Dean a couple of days, see if the kid can’t shake off whatever is ailing him.
By dinner time Dean is still out but he blinks his eyes open when John shakes him awake. “You gotta eat something, kiddo,” he says, stroking Dean’s sweaty hair. “Get your strength up.”
Dean struggles to sit up. He’s still pale except for rosy spots on each cheek. “Yes, sir,” he croaks, but he ends up eating less than half a sandwich and taking only a few sips of his milk. John tries to coax him to finish up but stops when he sees Dean gagging on the small bite he’s been chewing on for the last two minutes.
“You still tired, son?” John asks, testing Dean’s forehead against the back of his hand. Still slightly warm. It’s troubling.
“I’m okay,” Dean mumbles, clearly struggling to keep his head upright.
“Better have an early night,” John tells him. “See if you can’t sleep off whatever is bothering you. I’ll clean up here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I can read to you!” Sam announces, sliding off his chair and hurrying to Dean’s side.
Dean looks down at him. Even exhausted the smile for his little brother is instant. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’ve been practicing!”
John watches them make their way slowly into the bedroom, Dean leaning on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam struggling under his weight. “What you gonna read me then, squirt?” Dean is asking, panting slightly.
“Not a squirt!” Sam objects, but he’s giggling as they disappear through the door.
John sighs, finishing the rest of Dean’s sandwich. It’s good, if slightly dry and the lettuce and tomatoes are maybe not the freshest. Still, no reason to waste it.
Sam shakes John awake during the night, his pjs damp and stinking. He looks on, eyes wide, as John changes the sheets. Dean never even wakes up.
John hesitates before selecting the last number. He doesn’t really expect her to be available, but only a few minutes go by after the receptionist tells him to wait before Dr. Whyler picks up.
“Hi, doc,” he says. “I don’t know if you remember me but…” And then he has to pause. Who was he again? Right. “My name is James Hetfield, I was there a few weeks ago with my two boys.”
“I remember you, Mr. Hetfield. You left in a hurry.”
He clutches the phone tight. “I’m sorry. I was… Doesn’t matter. I need to ask you about Dean, what you said about Dean.”
“I don’t have his file in front of me, Mr. Hetfield, but I do remember some of it. Strep, flu, pneumonia. Malnutrition. Dental problems. Your boy was very sick and you didn’t let us finish treating him.”
John bites his tongue. After all, she’s right. “No. No, I didn’t. But I got him antibiotics and vitamins. And I had his teeth fixed.”
“That’s a start,” she says, not sounding too impressed. “So why are you calling?”
“He’s still… He’s no good, doc. He’s been tired and weak, with no appetite. And I remember you said, you talked about depression? Kid’s been down. Like the only thing that gets a smile out of him is his brother and even then it’s hardly at all. And now he’s sick again with a fever. Can’t keep him awake, he’s sleeping day and night and … He wet the bed. Kid’s eight years old! And-”
“Mr. Hetfield, listen to me,” she interrupts. “You need to bring him in. Right now!”
The sound of Dean’s labored breathing is suddenly very loud in the room. “We’re not at home right now,” John lies. “I had to take another business trip.”
“Then you bring him to the nearest hospital, and you tell them exactly what’s been going on.”
“But-” he starts but she cuts him off again, her voice firm and serious.
“Remember the life-threatening part, Mr. Hetfield? That’s what’s happening, right now. Do you understand me?”
“I understand,” he says even if he doesn’t. Dean’s fever isn’t even that high. He just can’t seem to keep awake.
“When you get there, have them call me and I’ll bring them up to speed.” As if she can tell what he’s thinking she quickly adds, “Mr. Hetfield, right now my only concern is for them to treat your son as quickly and accurately as possible. The only information I will share is medical. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” he repeats, relieved. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Get your son to the hospital. Now.”
John hangs up and stares blindly out the window. There’s a poltergeist he needs to take care of and then Harvelle called last night, saying he might have a lead on the demon and...
Goddammit!
John scrubs a hand over his face. He’s so tired, he can hardly think straight. Where is the nearest hospital anyway? They’re in some punk ass town he doesn’t even remember the name off, were just supposed to stop overnight and now they’ve been here for three days because of Dean. Meanwhile that damn poltergeist has already killed two more people.
He looks over to the bed. Sam is playing with Dean’s plastic soldiers, using the dips and hills of the comforter as landscape. Dean is asleep, mouth open, breath rattling slightly in his throat. Hair dark at the hairline. He’s only wearing a t-shirt. John put towels underneath him after the second accident. Dean didn’t even notice.
“Sam, get dressed. We need to go.”
Sam looks up, shocked, one small hand shooting out to grab Dean’s unresponsive fingers. “We’re leaving Dean? I’m not leaving Dean!”
“We’re not leaving him,” John dismisses as he starts shuffling clothes into their duffle bags. “We’re taking him to the hospital.”
“I’m not leaving him at the hospital!” Sam says, sounding hysterical and John stops to look at him. The kid’s eyes are filling with tears but the stubborn look on his face, and the protective way he’s now clutching Dean’s hand makes John feel strangely proud. Still, where the hell is this coming from?
“Sammy,” he says, keeping his voice as calm as he can manage. “We’re not leaving Dean. I’m not leaving either of you. Okay? Now get dressed.”
Sam doesn’t look convinced but after a while he nods and slips out of bed. He’s already wearing socks and a t-shirt so it’s just a matter of exchanging his pj bottoms for jeans and putting on a shirt. He keeps shooting Dean glances, huffing in annoyance when his zipper gets stuck. John sighs and zips up the second bag before helping Sam with his pants and buttoning up his shirt. He thought Dean had already taught Sam all this.
He doesn’t bother dressing Dean, just wraps him up in the comforter and lifts him out of bed. Dean’s eyes blink open for a moment, gazing at John in confusion, before closing again. He’s totally limp, his head lolling against John’s chest, and for the first time the words ‘life-threatening’ really register in John’s mind. She can’t really mean… He’s just a kid! It’s just a stupid case of strep. She can’t really mean life-threatening?
“What’s wrong with Dean?” Sam says as he climbs into the back seat, arranging Dean’s head carefully in his lap before strapping in. “Is he gonna die?” he adds in a small voice.
“Of course not!” John snaps. “Dean will be fine,” he adds in a softer tone when he hears Sam’s breath hitch.
Sam sniffles. He strokes Dean’s hair, his lower lip trembling. “I love you,” he whispers and kisses Dean’s forehead.
John swallows the lump in his throat and kicks down the pedal, the Impala spitting up gravel as they speed out of the parking lot.
Dean wakes up flailing in panic. There are bright lights stabbing his eyes and he can’t breathe! He hears alarms go off, high-pitched screeching that grows ever louder as he fights against the hands holding him down. Someone is telling him he needs to calm down, that they’re going to remove the tube, but all he really understands is that he doesn’t know those voices, he doesn’t know the hands holding him and none of the faces staring down at him look even remotely familiar.
It isn’t until he hears a familiar voice yell, “Dean!” that he stops thrashing, if only so he can pinpoint where it’s coming from. Turns out he doesn’t need to, Sammy climbs into bed and throws his small arms around Dean’s neck, hugging him tight. It feels like someone stabbed him in the chest, and Dean’s eyes roll back in his head from the agony.
“It’s okay, Dean, I’m here,” Sammy says, voice suspiciously wet, and Dean wants to hit whoever put those tears in his little brother’s throat. “I’m here, and Dad’s here, and you’re gonna be okay.”
Dean blinks up through a whisp of sandy hair, his vision blurry from the tears in his eyes. ‘What’s happening?’ he wants to ask, but there’s still something blocking his throat, and he still can’t breathe! He fumbles at his mouth, finding it stuffed full of plastic and panic seizes him again.
“Sam, get out of the way,” he hears Dad says, and then Sammy’s lifted off before Dean can grab onto him. A woman’s head appears above him, and through the blood rushing in his ears he hears her say something about him needing to cough so he does, coughs hard enough that his chest seizes up while he’s busy choking on the tube as it’s pulled out of his throat.
The air that finally rushes in tastes heavenly, but it also makes him cough again and this time the pain in his chest almost makes him black out.
“Easy,” the lady - doctor? nurse? - says, helping him sit up. “Try and breathe slowly. I know it hurts, sweetie. You’ve got a couple of broken ribs from the CPR. Honey, look at me. Breathe with me. In, out. In, out. Good. You’re doing great.” She lifts away the hospital gown, putting a stethoscope to his chest and back to listen, smiling at him before lowering him back down on the pillow. “Just keep on breathing, just like that.”
He pants, slower now that it doesn’t feel like someone’s stabbing him with a stake. “Sammy,” he rasps, his voice so hoarse and scratchy he can hardly hear himself but Sammy is instantly there, his weight shifting from the bottom of the bed where Dad must have yanked him and crawling hesitantly until he is hovering on his knees, looking down at Dean with tears in his eyes. Dean breathes out in relief. Sammy is okay. He lifts his arm with considerable effort and Sammy instantly slips into the hollow of his armpit, head coming to rest on Dean’s shoulder, his small hand stroking Dean’s chest carefully. For the first time since he woke up, Dean relaxes.
He hears the lady doctor talking and then Dad’s familiar rumble of a voice answering, sounding hesitant and anxious. Dean has never heard him sound like that before. Something must be really wrong. The machines start beeping again and suddenly everyone is back, staring down at him. The doctor is talking in a soothing tone, telling him everything is alright and that he’s going to be fine but everything is clearly not alright or they wouldn’t be here and he keeps waiting for Dad to yell at him and…
“Don’t be scared, De,” Sammy says into his ear, breath warming Dean’s neck. “You were really sick but you’re better now.”
If this is better, how bad was he before? Because he feels absolutely awful. But he doesn’t want to scare Sammy so he forces himself to breathe slower. “Okay,” he croaks. “Okay, Sammy.”
“Dean,” the lady says, smiling. “Glad to finally meet you. I’m Dr. Conway.” She ruffles Sam’s hair. “Your little brother’s been taking real good care of you.”
Dean puts his hand over Sammy’s ear, pressing the other down into his chest, even if it hurts. “Am I dying?” he whispers.
Her smile softens into something that reminds him so much of Mom he wants to cry. “No, sweetie. You’ve just been very sick. We had to keep you asleep for a while because your body was very tired but your brother is right, you are much better now.”
‘Don’t feel better,’ he wants to say, but just then Dad comes and lays a warm hand on the top of his head, looking down at him with eyes that shine weirdly wet.
“How you doing, kiddo?” he asks, and Dean automatically rasps, “I’m okay.” His Dad’s wide smile is enough to make him actually feel a little bit better, if only because whatever made Dad sound so strange before seems to be gone now.
“Good. That’s good to hear, son.”
“He’ll be weak for a while,” Dr. Conway says, and Dean winces. Dad nods but Dean can see the worry in his eyes. The impatience. “But, barring complications, he should be over the worst. For now.”
“For now?” Dad says, straightening up, and then they’re moving away to a corner of the room, voice lowered as they talk, low enough that Dean can’t hear them.
“Did you see Mom?” Sammy asks, and Dean lifts his hand from Sammy’s ear, burying his fingers in the too long hair instead.
“What?” he says, confused.
“Did you see Mom? In your dreams?”
Dean shakes his head. “I can’t remember.”
“Oh.” Sammy sounds disappointed. “I bet you did,” he adds after a while, his voice bright with conviction. “I bet she told you to say hello.”
Dean swallows. “I bet she did,” he agrees. He’s feeling tired, and he closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of Sammy’s hair that somehow manages to overpower the sickening smell of antiseptic and cabbage that lingers in the air. Sammy smells like home. Like the Impala, and baby shampoo and greasy diners.
“De?” Sammy says, his small voice far away. “Don’t go away again.”
“I won’t,” Dean promises and falls asleep.
This time John isn’t taking any chances, no matter that it’s driving him up the wall to wait for Dean to recover enough for them to be able to leave. They’re racking up a hospital bill the size of Texas but it’s not like John’s going to pay. By the time they realize John is not actually who he says he is and that the credit card he’s wielding doesn’t actually have any funds behind it, he’ll be long gone. Hopefully. He’s getting anxious though, he’s never stopped for this long within the government’s radar and if it wasn’t for Bobby (to whom he owes the biggest apology, or at least a beer) stepping into the role of his insurance agent, they’d have been forced to make a run for it long ago.
Dean is already moving around a bit but he gets tired easily, and the doctors seem to still be worried about his heart. His heart, for god’s sake! The kid is eight years old, and he had a freaking heart attack!
At first, when Sam yelled in the backseat and John saw Dean shaking in the rearview mirror, he had thought Dean was having a seizure. He’d yanked the Impala to the side of the road and screeched to a halt, the sharp movement making Dean slip out of Sam’s clutches and roll onto the floor. By the time John pulled him out, Dean had stopped breathing.
Jesus! John’s never been as scared in his life. Sam was crying so hard he was screaming and John had to yell at him to shut up so he could hear if Dean’s heart was beating. It wasn’t. John had almost thrown up when he’d heard Dean’s ribs crack under his clenched fists but he hadn’t dared stop the compressions until Dean finally drew a breath and coughed weakly, his eyes fluttering open for only a few seconds before sliding closed again.
He'd kept Dean in the front seat, head in his lap, while he sped the rest of the way to the hospital, with Sam crying quietly in the backseat.
Rheumatic fever, they’d said. Caused by untreated strep throat. But I did treat it, John wanted to tell them. Except, what if those antibiotics he bought under the counter were the wrong ones? What if it hadn’t been enough? What if he had simply been too late?
What does it mean, he’d asked, and the answers made him want to hit something. How can an eight-year-old kid have heart problems? How can they sit there and tell him his son’s heart might be damaged for life? That even if isn’t, it could take months for the inflammation to go down? And even then it’s just as likely that he’ll develop complications years, even decades later? He’s eight, he’s eight, he’s eight, goddammit! John wants to scream at them. Fucking fix him!
John leans against the wall and watches his older son shuffle his way across the floor, smiling tiredly at Sammy who is edging him on, laughing, treating it all like a game, and it feels hard to breathe.
“Mr. Hetfield,” says a voice and he turns around, fake smile automatically plastered on his lips until he sees the serious look in dr. Conway’s eyes. His face falls.
“What is wrong? He’s fine! Look at him,” he says, desperate, gesturing at Dean who has reached the bed and is lying down, panting, Sammy already crawling into his lap.
“Mr. Hetfield, we should sit down.”
“Oh God.” His knees suddenly feel weak. He can’t take any more bad news. “Is it his heart?” he asks as he sinks into a chair. “Is it damaged?”
“Actually,” she says, sitting down beside him, “Dean’s heart is looking much better. The swelling is going down, slowly. He’s still not out of the woods but I think we can safely say that the risk of another heart failure is minimum. At the moment.”
“Okay. Okay. At the moment.” John takes a deep breath. “But not permanently because…”
“Yes. Like we talked about. But that is years down the road. Which is what I want to discuss with you.” Her smile is brief and far from reassuring. “With rheumatic fever, especially if it’s had time to work its damage, the road to recovery is very long. One of the necessary treatments is antibiotics. Dean will have to be on them for a very long time or this might happen again.”
“Okay,” John says slowly. This time he’ll have to make sure to steal the right kind. “How long?”
“At least ten years.”
He stares at her. “You’re joking,” he finally forces out. “You’re… What?”
“I know this is a shock, Mr. Hetfield. And…” She pauses, breathing in deeply before continuing, her voice low. “I know your insurance is fake. It’s none of my business,” she says as he forces himself to breathe slowly, face frozen. “I have no interest in whether your bill gets paid or not. All I care about is Dean. But even if you might be able to cheat the system this time, you can’t keep it up for ten years.”
“So, what the hell am I supposed to do?” John hisses, fear spurring his anger. “I don’t know how…” The anger leaves him just as suddenly as it rushed in. “I can’t let my boy die,” he pleads.
“No. Dean’s fought way too hard to be killed by bureaucracy and a bad healthcare system,” she agrees, a hard glint in her eyes. “Which is why I’m talking to you, Mr. Hetfield. You need to find yourself a job with a health insurance. A steady job because Dean will have to be under surveillance until he is an adult. Do you understand?”
“But…”
“What is it you do now?”
He blinks at her. “Uhm, I’m…” The old lie about being an insurance agent dies on his lips. An insurance agent without an insurance? Not very likely. “I’m in sales.”
“Alright,” she says although she doesn’t look like she believes him. “I suggest you start looking for something local. No later than yesterday.”
John looks over at Dean who is already sitting up again, clearly contemplating walking another lap even if he’s still panting slightly and looks about ready to drop. John wants to scream in frustration. God, this isn’t fair! How is he supposed to… He can’t. He can’t just let whatever killed Mary go. But… Dean.
John swallows. “What… what would happen if… if I handed him over to the state?”
Dr. Conway looks at him, her mouth opening then closing again. “Mr. Hetfield,” she finally says. “There is no guarantee the state will provide your son with the treatment he needs.”
“But there’s a chance?”
“There is a very small chance and Dean has already used up a very large portion of luck.”
“I have a mission,” he starts and her face turns into one of disgust. Only for a second before it becomes neutral again but it’s clear what she thinks of his ‘mission’. “It’s life and death,” he adds stubbornly although he knows she will never understand.
“This is life and death, Mr. Hetfield,” she says coldly. “Your son’s life. Your son’s death.”
He flinches. “My wife. She was killed. I have to find whoever did it. I have to…”
“Mr. Hetfield. James,” she says, tone softening slightly. “You have a choice here. Your dead wife and soon a dead son. Or two alive sons. It’s that simple.”
It’s not, but she can’t understand that. It’s about more than Mary. It’s even about more than Dean. Can he choose his son’s life and forsake the lives of so many others he will not be able to help, to save? He looks over at Dean and finds Dean’s eyes staring back at him, wide with worry and vulnerability, like they always seem now. Like he’s waiting for something even worse to happen.
“Yes,” John says. “Thank you, doc.”
Dr. Conway nods and pats him on the hand before standing up and leaving the room. John takes a moment to just breathe before he stands up and walks over to where Dean is leaning against a chair, breathing heavily. He’s clearly exhausted but it’s not in Dean to give up. Never has been.
“Think that’s enough for now, son,” John says, catching Dean by the elbow when he wavers. “You’re still weak.” He can feel Dean flinch but when he glances down, Dean’s face shows nothing but exhaustion.
“We’ll come back tomorrow,” he tells Dean once he’s safely back in bed. “You rest now, kiddo. Sam, come on.”
“I don’t wanna leave,” Sam whines, grabbing hold of Dean’s hand. “I wanna stay here with Dean.”
“You know you can’t. You boys are way too big to share a bed anyway,” he adds with a smile at the nurse that comes in just then to check Dean’s vitals.
He expects Sam to object, he clings to Dean on the best of days, and sure enough he moves even closer to Dean, a stubborn look on his baby-soft face. What surprises John is the almost grief-stricken look in Dean’s eyes. He waits until the nurse has left before backtracking with a sigh. “Who am I kidding, you’ll probably still be joined at the hip when you’re forty.”
Sam’s face lights up in a grin, but it’s Dean, sagging with immense relief for a brief moment, before quickly masking it with stoic indifference, that makes John’s heart clench.
“Come on, Sam,” he says, voice slightly rough with emotion. “We need to let your brother rest.”
“Okay,” Sam pouts. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’ll come back when you ain’t tired.”
He slings his arms around Dean’s neck and Dean pulls him in so tight that Sam lets out a low squeak before hugging Dean back just as fiercely, mindless of Dean’s broken ribs. Dean sucks in a sharp breath but he doesn’t let go, just squeezes his eyes shut, his nose buried into Sam’s hair. His breathing is so shallow if John didn’t know better, he’d think Dean was panicking. They stay like that for so long that John starts to feel like an outsider, a voyeur, and he puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder, disturbed by the low tremor that travels up his arm, until he realizes it’s not Sam that is trembling but Dean. Kid must be more tired than he thought.
“Come on, Sam,” John says firmly. “We need to go.”
He pries Sam’s arms gently away from Dean’s neck, lifting the kid into his arms. Sam makes a small sound of protest but he must be tired as well because he cuddles closer, one hand fisting John’s jacket. Dean looks up then and the longing in his eyes as he watches John absently palm the back of Sam’s head, makes John even more determined to find a way out of this mess. He’s honestly not sure his boys would survive being separated. But he can’t just lay down his gun. He can’t.
“You get some rest, son,” he says and lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder, squeezing it in encouragement. Dean breathes out, and he bows his head, mouth turning downwards as if in disappointment. John pauses. Then he runs his palm gently up Dean’s neck and rubs the back of Dean’s head with his fingers. Dean’s eyes flutter shut, his lower lip trembles, and emotion swells in John’s throat. He steps closer and presses Dean to his stomach in as much of an embrace as he can manage with Sam rapidly falling asleep on his shoulder.
“We’ll be back,” he promises and feels a shudder run through Dean’s body. “You be good now.”
Dean nods, his eyes still closed. John pats his head before stepping away, noticing the way Dean’s head tilts to follow before he straightens up with a sigh, eyes blinking open but downcast, his mouth set in a tight line. Poor kid, he’s clearly done in.
As John is walking out the door, he glances back. Dean’s head is bowed, his shoulders slumped; he’s pulled the blanket up to his chest, but his hands lie slack on top of it, fingers slightly curled, like he’s too tired to make proper fists. He looks oddly small in that big white bed, like he’s shrinking, disappearing. John gets hit with this irrational fear that he will be gone when they come back the next day, having just faded away into nothing. Well, that’s not gonna happen. After all they’ve been through, John’s not going to let a damn sore throat take away his boy. No way in hell.
It takes him a week and by then Dean is ready to leave the hospital. Not a moment too soon, there’s another bill due and John is running out of fake credit cards. He used his last dollars to buy the antibiotics Dean will need for the next month.
Dean is still pale, and he seems anxious, but he manages to walk steadily on his own to the car once the nurse has wheeled him to the front doors. The hospital food, as awful as it looked and smelled, has added some much-needed meat to his bones. John hadn’t fully appreciated how thin his boy had gotten until the daylight hits his face, and John notices the slightly rounder cheeks and less prominent collarbones.
The tension that Dean has been visibly holding in his body every time John and Sam had to leave him at the hospital seems to leak out the moment Sam drags him into the back seat of the Impala. Like he’s finally home, which John guesses the car is now, after four years on the road. And isn’t that a sobering thought? Well, it won’t be much longer now. Soon, Dean will have a home again, and Sam will get the home he never knew. John will make sure of it.
He eyes his boys in the rearview mirror as they drive out of town. Dean is sitting up but his and Sam’s hands are clasped tight across the bench. Seems Sam won’t let go of his brother, now he’s finally got him back. And man, has the little guy been a pain. Every waking moment they’re not at the hospital Sam’s whined about going back. It’s been nothing but Dean this, and Dean that, and, Christ, John’s happy his sons are close, but he’s exhausted. And not just because his younger son has seemingly endless energy. John had grown so used to Dean keeping Sam occupied, reading to him, playing with him, taking him out for walks or to play games, making him snacks. Jeez, the kid is hungry all the time. No wonder they kept running out of food if Dean’s been feeding him every time he asks for something.
They’ve been driving for a while when Dean asks timidly, “Where we going? Sir.”
“Bobby’s.” John glances in the rearview mirror. Dean is staring out the window, biting his lower lip.
“I gotta stay?” he asks, his voice so quiet that for a moment John isn’t sure he heard right.
“For a while,” John answers, wondering what is making Dean look so subdued all of a sudden. He looks over at Sam who has fallen asleep, head resting against the window, having woken up far too early with the excitement of Dean finally coming home.
“Please, Dad,” Dean says suddenly, his breath hitching. “He’s too little.”
John frowns. “Sam? Too little for what?”
“To be left on his own.” Dean wipes his nose on the sleeve of his jacket. “I can still take care of him. I can.” His shoulders start shaking. “Please, Dad. Please.”
Whoa. What the hell is happening? “Dean, come on up front. Just crawl over the back.” Not really safe while they’re driving but it’s raining heavily and he’d rather the boy not get soaked.
Dean looks over at Sam then carefully loses his brother’s grip on his hand, unfastens his seatbelt and climbs over into the front seat. He’s panting as he slides down, but if it’s from the exertion or because he’s trying not to cry is hard to tell.
“Come here,” John says and reaches out, pulling him close to his side. Dean is shaking, his body stiff but he soon sags against John, like he used to do when he was Sam’s age. Before…
John clears his throat. “Dean-o, what is going on? Why do you think I’d leave Sam on his own? I got you to look after him, don’t I?”
“You- you said,” Dean hiccups, “I’m to stay with Bobby.”
“I thought you liked Bobby?” John asks confused.
“But I can still take care of Sammy! I can!” And now Dean’s openly crying, his small body shaking with sobs.
“Dean, I know you can,” John says gently, hugging him tighter, forgetting momentarily about Dean’s broken ribs but loosening his grip instantly when he hears Dean suck in his breath. “Just maybe not right now.”
“That, that why you asked that lady doctor if, if you could hand me over to, to…? I don’t know who, but she got real mad.”
Ah. Damn. He’d heard that. “I’m sorry, son,” John says with honest regret. “It was a stupid thing to say, I was just worried.”
Dean looks up, eyes wide in his tearstained face. “About me?”
“Yeah, kiddo, about you. Because I want you to get better and I thought…” John sighs. “Doesn’t matter, but I promise you, I’m not leaving you with Bobby or anyone. Maybe for a few days sometimes because I can see now it’s no good leaving you boys alone for such a long time. That was my mistake. It won’t happen again. But I am not abandoning you or Sam. I promise. Okay?”
Dean sniffles. “Okay.”
“What would I do without my big boy, huh?” John says with a smile, giving Dean a small shake. “Who’d look after Sammy?”
Dean tries for a smile, but he’s still trembling, so John pulls him a little closer, palming his head, stroking over the hair that is getting far too long. Dean’s eyes close, his breath hitching. John should tell him to scoot back and put on his seatbelt. Instead, he drives on, stroking Dean’s hair, until he falls asleep in his lap and even then he can’t make himself stop, relishing the soft pat-pat-pat of Dean’s heart beating steady under his fingertips.
“This is damn risky,” Bobby says for the fifth time, giving Dean a strained smile before turning back to glaring at John. They haven’t started yelling yet but Dean can tell it won’t be long until one or both of them loses their temper. Sometimes he wonders why Bobby keeps taking them in when he and Dad always end up fighting.
“So is doing nothing,” John snaps. He’s mixing up some herbs and bones and other stuff in a bowl. It smells horrible. Dean really hopes he doesn’t have to eat it.
“We should call someone who knows what the hell they’re doing,” Bobby tries. Again. “Witch stuff is tricky business.”
John huffs. “I’m not letting some goddamn witch mess up my boy.”
“I’m just sayin’…”
“No.”
Bobby throws up his hands in frustration. “Don’t come whining to me when the boy starts sprouting warts all over his body.” He catches himself and smiles at Dean. “I’m just kidding, son.”
“He’s not your son,” John mutters and Dean sees Bobby’s face turn red. He doesn’t say anything though, just stomps out of the kitchen and into the library where Sammy is pretending to read a book. Although Dean sometimes wonders if Sam maybe really can read already, he just likes making up stories more.
Dean sips his soda, legs kicking back and forth. He feels fine. Well, okay. Not too bad. He still gets tired just doing nothing, and sometimes his heart beats really loud. Like badum-badum-badum banging inside his chest. Not enough to hurt but… it’s scary. But he’ll get better. Dad says so. He just needs Dean to get better a bit quicker, that’s all, so they can go back to hunting whatever killed Mom. That’s what this is about.
“Okay,” Dad says, and Dean’s head snaps up. “I think that’s it.”
“You better be damn sure!” Bobby yells from the living room.
“Stop your nagging and get in here,” John shouts back. “Grumpy old bastard.”
He throws Dean a grin and a wink, and Dean smiles automatically back even if his stomach is churning. “What do I have to do?” he asks, holding his head high.
“Nothing much. Just… hold out your arm. This is gonna sting a little.”
It stings a lot. Dean jerks in panic but Dad’s fingers are like vice, holding his arm so tight Dean can feel bruises forming underneath his fingertips. His eyes tear up and he starts to feel faint as he watches blood spring up from the cut and trickle down into the bowl.
“That’s enough,” Bobby hisses and wraps a tea towel around Dean’s arm. Dean has to bite his lip not to whimper. He thinks he might throw up. “Now do your little spell and get this over with.”
“Hold your horses.”
Dad wipes the knife on the tea towel and Dean gags, his stomach threatening to crawl up into his throat. Dad glances at him but clearly decides there’s no real danger and starts stirring the concoction. It looks disgusting and Dean really hopes he doesn’t have to eat it. When Dad dips his fingers in the gunk and starts painting symbols on the floor, Dean breathes out in relief. Bobby hovers over Dad’s shoulder, pointing out flaws in his design until Dean thinks Dad might just slug him. Finally it’s done and Dad puts the bowl aside, lights the five candles that form a pentagon around the symbols, and opens his journal.
Dean holds his breath as Dad starts chanting. He feels a small hand slip into his and looks down to see Sammy stare wide-eyed at what’s happening. Dean is torn between wanting to drag him out of there or watch what happens. Before he can make up his mind Bobby snatches Sammy up, the shaken look on his face saying he, just as Dad, had forgotten Sammy was there.
“Stay here,” Bobby tells Dean and hurries out of the room and up the stairs with Sammy complaining the whole way that he wants to see.
Dean swallows. The candles have begun to smoke, the flames turning high and so blindingly white Dean has to squint to shield his eyes. Suddenly his heart jumps in his chest. He folds from the shock, slamming his hand to his chest, forgetting his still healing ribs. He gasps from the sharp pain, then again when his heart starts speeding up, beating faster and faster until he feels so dizzy he falls down on his knees and then tumbles over, trying and failing to pull air into his lungs. He’s aware of Bobby shouting, of being pulled into strong arms and then laid down flat, Bobby screaming at Dad to stop before he covers Dean’s mouth with his own and blows hot air tasting of whiskey and tobacco down his throat. It doesn’t do anything, Dean’s heart keeps speeding up, and his lungs are still refusing to pull in any air. The last thing he hears before he passes out is the silence of his heart coming to a stop.
He comes to, coughing, his lungs burning from lack of oxygen. Dad is cradling him in his arms, a manic look in his eyes that turns into relief when Dean continues breathing, sucking in air like he’d been drowning. There’s a bruise forming on Dad’s jaw that wasn’t there last Dean saw and when he looks over, Bobby is cradling his hand, cursing up a blue streak.
“You alright, son?” John rasps, his voice trembling. He crushes Dean to his chest when he nods. “Jesus, you scared me. Goddammit.”
“This better have worked, you goddamn crazy sumbitch!” Bobby hisses, flexing his fingers.
“It will,” Dad says. “I’ll have him checked out but it will. I’m sure. It worked.”
“You knew this was gonna happen?” Bobby growls. He sounds even angrier than usual. In fact, he sounds like he’s about to get his shotgun and shoot Dad in the head. “You knew he would d-”
He cuts himself off at the last minute but Dean gets it anyway. Die. He’d died. Actually died. What? But… he didn’t even get to see Mom.
He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until Dad start saying, “Sshh, it’s alright. Everything is gonna be alright. Please, Dean, don’t… Oh jeez.” And then Dad buries his face in Dean’s hair, breath coming in shaky gulps as he rocks Dean in his arms.
“You damn well could have killed him! For good!”
John swallows his mouthful of whiskey and nods. He knows.
“And what the hell for? He was gonna get better on his damn own!”
John looks up. “No. He wasn’t. It was a ten year treatment, Bobby. Minimum. And even then… I couldn’t risk it.”
“But you could risk this?” Bobby shakes his head in disgust. “I could damn well throttle you!”
“You already gave me a damn shiner,” John grumbles, pouring himself another drink.
At least Bobby held off until John finished the ritual, although it was a close call. In fact, he’s not sure Bobby knew he’d already read the last word when he laid one on him. On the other hand, John’s not sure he could have finished if he’d realized what was actually happening to Dean behind his back, that it wasn’t just Bobby having hysterics and overreacting, like always.
Jesus, when he saw his boy lying lifeless with no pulse, no breathing.... And the hell of it is, he should have known. Renascentia. It said so right there in the spell’s title. What the hell did he think ‘rebirth’ meant? He could fucking throttle himself.
“Besides, he’s gonna be fine,” he tells himself more than Bobby, taking another deep gulp. “Kid’s a trooper.”
Bobby glares at him then snatched the bottle out of his hands and pours himself a double, drinking it down in three gulps before filling his glass again. “That boy is gonna grow up hating your guts,” he grumbles.
That stings. Not that John believes it. Sam is already turning into a stubborn little rebel but Dean… Dean looks up to his dad. Dean loves him with all his being. It actually scares John sometimes how much Dean seems to worship him. Even if it does make his job a whole lot easier. “As long as he grows up, I can live with that,” John murmurs.
Bobby harrumphs. “You’re a crappy liar and a bastard.”
“I can live with that too,” John says and half-smiles when Bobby rolls his eyes. “This the best whiskey you got? We’re damn well celebrating.”
“One more minute, and we’d be drinking that boy’s eulogy.”
John closes his eyes. “Bobby…”
“I’m going to bed.”
Bobby heaves himself up from his chair. He looks suddenly so much older than his … well, whatever he is. Forty? John suddenly realizes he has no idea. He sure feels a lot older himself than his thirty-two years.
“Got an appointment for Dean at the hospital tomorrow,” John says out loud, “and then we’ll be leaving for Nebraska if all’s good. Harvelle’s got news, he thinks.”
Bobby stops, frowning at him over his shoulder. “The boys could stay here. Hell, they should stay here. They’ve been through enough for now. Give them a goddamn break, John.”
John shakes his head. “We need to keep moving. Whatever killed Mary, it did it in Sam’s goddamn nursery. For all I know, he was the target.”
Bobby’s eyebrows climb up under his cap. “A baby? Why the hell would they want to kill a baby?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Until then, I can’t risk it. Not even with you.”
“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence,” Bobby mutters.
John sighs. “You know that’s not what I mean. I trust you with my life.”
Bobby harrumphs. “Just not your sons’ lives.”
“No, I do. Damnit, Bobby, you know I damn well do. But I can’t…” John stares down into his glass. “They’re all I’ve got left. And Dean, he… he keeps me grounded.”
“He shouldn’t be keeping you anything!” Bobby yells. “He should be out there with other snotnosed kids, playing baseball and skinning his knobbly knees. And you goddamn know it.”
John doesn’t say anything, and after a moment Bobby shakes his head with a huff and leaves. John sits staring into his glass for a long time before jerking awake. He gulps down the rest of his whiskey and slams the glass down on the table before heaving himself up with some difficulty. Damn, he’s tired. And drunk. But mostly tired.
It takes effort to haul himself upstairs. Bobby’s guest room has two beds and the boys are dead asleep in the one they share, arms tight around each other. As entwined as he and Mary used to sleep during their first years. Before he screwed things up with his damn drinking and short temper. They still slept together, still had sex and intimacy, and, God, he loved her so damn much, and he knows she loved him back, but it was different. He’d even moved out at one point, just to give them both some space. Left her with Sam still crying through the nights, and when he’d returned, more out of loneliness than because he felt guilty, she’d looked so exhausted, like she hadn’t slept in days. Not his proudest moment.
On nights like tonight, those are the moments he remembers. The hard ones. The bad ones. The ones he wishes he could forget. Because truth is their marriage wasn’t perfect, no matter what he tries to tell himself. They weren’t perfect. Sometimes he wonders if they were even happy. Wonders how long she would have put up with him if she hadn’t…
“Dad?”
Dean’s eyes glitter in the moonlight, wide and worried and so much like Mary’s that there are times John can’t even look at him for fear of breaking down.
“Everything’s alright, son,” John murmurs and stumbles to the other bed to unlace his shoes. “I’m just going to bed. Go back to sleep.”
“Okay.”
Dean doesn’t sound convinced, but he obediently closes his eyes. After a moment he pulls Sam closer, wrapping his arms protectively around him. Sam makes a small noise of complaint but soon settles down, burying his face in Dean’s neck.
Despite the alcohol making him feel slightly dizzy, John stays awake for almost an hour, just watching his boys sleep.
“I really don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Hammett. I can’t find anything wrong with your son that explains him having chest pains. His heart looks fine. Heartrate is good, blood pressure absolutely normal. Most likely it was just indigestions. Even kids can get heartburn.”
The doctor smiles condescendingly and ruffles Dean’s hair. Dean doesn’t react. He is being worryingly still, staring ahead with a blank expression in his face. His naked chest seems unnaturally white under the harsh lights, the protruding ribs casting shadows upon his skin. “He could use to add a few pounds but that’s it.”
“The tests…”
“Will take a couple of days. We will call you with the results but to be honest, I very much doubt we will find anything.” The look on the doctor’s face says what he thinks of this whole situation and John in particular. Hysterical, overprotective, the kind of parent he shakes his head at as soon as they turn their backs. John would love to smack him.
“I just really need to be sure,” he says instead. “There is family history. My wife…” He looks away feeling his cheeks burn like they always do when he uses Mary’s death to embellish his lies.
“I understand,” the doctor says, but he’s starting to look bored. “Never hurts to be thorough. Like I said, we’ll call you.”
“Thank you. Dean, put your shirt back on. We’re leaving.”
Dean looks up, startled, like he’s been miles away. He fumbles for his t-shirt and it takes him a couple of tries to put it on right. John tries not to be impatient but he is starting to get really sick of hospitals, and he just wants to get out of there and on the road to Nebraska.
He hadn’t really considered what Dean might be feeling, until he hears him breathe out in relief as soon as they step outside the building. “You heard the doc, you’re fine,” John reminds him, in case Dean is still worried.
Dean nods, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s being uncharacteristically quiet, even for him. Even with Sam, which is a lot more worrying, because he might not have Sam’s mouthiness, but he usually has plenty of comebacks and jokes to keep his little brother entertained. Only emotion he’s really shown was an obvious unease at leaving Sam at Bobby’s while they ran into town to have the tests done. He’d hugged Sam tight before they left; even when Sam started to struggle Dean held on, until Sam relaxed and continued to hug him back. They’d looked like two orphans clinging to each other for dear life, and again John got this feeling of being excluded, as if in that moment they couldn’t even remember he existed.
They’re halfway to Nebraska with Sammy sleeping in the backseat, when Dean finally gathers the courage to say, “I’m still weak.”
“Hmh?” Dad glances over, the fingers of one hand tapping the wheel. “What’s that?”
“I’m still weak,” Dean repeats, a little louder. “I’m trying but… I still feel tired. I’m sorry.”
He expects Dad to frown in disappointment, but he just shakes his head. “Son, the spell just fixed the inflammation. The swelling of your heart muscles,” he clarifies when Dean just blinks at him. Oh, so that’s what was wrong with him. “You feel weak because the rest of your body still took a damn beating. It just takes time.”
“Because I’m too skinny?” Dean guesses, rubbing at his chest. He knows he is, kids at school keep calling him names, like Boney M. and Toothpick, but he hadn’t realized it could make you sick.
“Well, it sure don’t help,” Dad mutters.
“I’ll eat more,” Dean promises. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, he’s hungry all the time, it’s just that he can’t stop calculating in his head how to make the food last longer in case…
“You do that. And we need to up your exercise regime. Build up those muscles.”
Dad sends him a quick smile, and Dean smiles automatically back while inside his stomach is churning. He hates exercising. It makes him hurt, all over his body, but also when breathing, in his throat, and inside his chest, and afterwards he’s so tired he just wants to collapse, somewhere Dad and Sammy can’t find him. But Dad is right. He has to get stronger, faster, build up his stamina so he can protect Sammy and go on hunts with Dad, and not just as a lookout or bait, but shooting things, saving people. Like Dad does. He wants to be the hero Sammy thinks he is. More than anything, he wants to be Sammy’s hero.
“Yes, sir.”
Dad shoots him another smile, but Dean’s eyes are on the road, watching the yellow lines disappear under the car, so fast it feels like they’re flying.
When John hears from Bobby that Dean’s heart finally gave out, almost twenty years later, for a moment it’s like he’s back, kneeling on that icy road, breaking Dean’s ribs with the force of his desperate fists. It takes every ounce of his will not to pick up the phone and call, just to hear Dean’s voice.
fin