Episode One: Guardian

By Kittsbud & BurstynOut

Part Two

St. Mary’s Health Center, Missouri
2.42a.m.

Sam leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers as he squeezed both eyes shut. He was tired, hell, he was exhausted, but he couldn’t rest. The pounding in his head had grown in intensity since they’d arrived at the hospital. He wasn’t sure if it was from the bump he’d taken or just another symptom of the worry that was eating away at him over Dean.

At one point, a nurse had even stopped and asked if he was alright. He’d apparently looked gaunt enough to raise concern. Alright. Such a small word for something so monumentally elusive, something he’d not felt in a very long time. He’d told her he was fine and shooed her away, but it was anyone's guess as to how long he could keep up that pretense. He peered around the waiting room, noticing he’d been here far longer than most already and knew it would probably go on like this until the early hours.

Sam let his head drop as he leaned forward, trying to force away the inner anguish by concentrating on what he should do next. Every minute, every second, though, his mind flashed back to arriving at the hospital. It seemed so long ago now that he had carried Dean from the car into the ER, blood dripping behind them like a breadcrumb trail.

Raw memories erupted at the very thought of his brother lying limp in his arms. Dean shouldn’t be the weak one. He should never need to be carried. Fragility had never been acceptable when it came to Dean.

Blurry, half focused visions of the medical team taking his brother away filled Sam’s head. Had it been an illusion, a trick of the light, or had Dean looked at him one last time through those cheeky eyes of his as if to say ‘goodbye, bro’ as he’d been wheeled away into the white oblivion?

Sam recoiled from the thought. It was better to stay optimistic. When the doctor had first emerged she hadn’t said things were hopeless, although her bleak expression had at least suggested it. Critical, that was the word she had used.

Apparently, Dean was in hypovolemic shock, but Sam had expected as much. The priest’s car now had a new color scheme for its rear seat, purely thanks to Dean’s injuries.

Of course, loss of blood volume wasn’t the end of his problems. To add to that were the gaping, ragged tears left by the demon’s unseen hand. The doctors wouldn’t know what damage lay beyond those until they opened Dean up.

Sam checked his watch. Dean had been in surgery over an hour. Was that good or bad?

“It won’t go any quicker.”

Sam took a second to compose himself before looking up into the pale blue eyes of the priest. The holy man had stayed with him since their arrival, only leaving once to go to the bathroom. Until now, he hadn’t spoken a word. Perhaps somehow he’d sensed Sam didn’t like talking about his family to strangers. Or, perhaps he was simply trying to be polite.

“I can’t help it,” Sam reluctantly admitted. “He’s always been there for me…” There was a hint of apprehension to his timbre- just enough to indicate he believed he might not have given as much as he’d gotten. Why hadn't he been able to stop the demon with his gifts? Was it too much to ask for a family who had given so much of their lives to fight darkness to have something supernatural working in their favor for a change?

The priest slowly nodded, cupping his hands in front of him. “And you’re here for him. I’m sure he knows that.” He took a breath and then turned towards another area of the hospital, indicating the next wing with his head. “What about your father? Did the doctors give you any news?”

Father. Sam wasn’t sure he liked that word right now. John had shown very little concern for Dean in the car, or when they were both being admitted, and Sam was sure it wasn’t just because his dad had a concussion. “The leg wound isn’t too serious, but they’ve taken him down for a scan just to make sure the concussion diagnosis was right.”

“You sound a little…” The priest found himself lost for the right description and instead of continuing, moved from the opposite bench to sit next to his newfound friend. “Don’t be too harsh on your father, Sam. There are reasons for everything in this world if you look hard enough.”

It was easy for the newcomer to say, but not so easy for Sam to accept. John had never been there for them, not even when he’d called to say Dean was dying that time after he’d been electrocuted. Dad even admitted as much when Dean confronted him with it.

Sam felt water begin to rise in his eyes and swell until he began to blink. It wasn’t right for a family to be like this. He turned away from the priest, trying to stifle the already free flowing liquid from ebbing down his face. When he couldn’t control the tears with his emotions, he wiped them away with his jacket sleeve and then turned back, face reddened slightly. Dean would call me a wuss…

The idea that his brother wouldn’t appreciate his current behavior spurred him into some kind of emotional doldrums and he calmed his nerves. He had to stay decisive and cautious for all their sakes. He was the only uninjured Winchester, and he had to make sure their dark foes didn’t follow them here and finish the job they had started. With that thought in mind, he turned his attention back to the unnamed priest.

“How do you know my name?” Sam caught Kyle so off guard with his question the priest simply stared at him. “My name,” Sam pushed harder for a response, his eyebrows furrowing just a touch. “How do you know me? And why do I get the feeling you weren’t on that highway by accident?”

“I…I saw you hit the tru…the tree,” Kyle stammered, almost forgetting himself. “I knew you needed help.” He paused. “You’re father must have mentioned your name back in the car.”

Sam knew John hadn’t. Who was this stranger who had come into their lives just at the right time? Was he a savior or a ploy by forces from some dark netherworld? “My dad never mentioned my name. Not once.” Of that Sam was sure. In fact, he was convinced John had been so taken up with their defeat at the hands of the demon that he hadn’t really paid anything any heed. He was a man without emotions, driven by one deep-seated mission to kill what couldn’t be killed.

Kyle felt his throat grow dry as the young man’s stare bored into him. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to tell the truth, but to do so might be dangerous. His vision hadn’t ended as he had expected, and he sensed the events of the night were far from over. Something was happening here in Missouri that even he couldn’t comprehend- at least not yet.

Inside his jacket pocket he fingered the rosary he had brought in from the car. In times like these its humble shape and texture gave him solace that normal men usually only found at the bottom of a bourbon bottle. When his nerves were somewhat sated, he nodded to Sam, indicating he was going to confess, if not everything.

“I see things, Sam. Horrible things, mostly, and they always come true. Well, almost always.” He waited for a reaction.

Sam’s eyes showed surprise and he eased back on his seat as if he needed more room to take in the truth. The last thing he had expected was to be gazing at the face of a fellow ‘visionary,’ “You saw the accident?”

Kyle nodded apologetically. “In a way, yes.” He began touching the rosary again, some inner part of his psyche asking for guidance from his heavenly master. “I know you see things too, Sam. I think that’s why I’m here. You and I, we’re connected. I don’t know how, or why, but we are. I know what you’ve been through.”

The priest began to shift uneasily on his seat as if he’d parked himself on an ants nest. This was not going how he had planned. It would be better if he could distance himself from the Winchesters until he knew more. And yet, could he leave this young man when there was obviously more going on in his head than just thoughts of concern for his injured dad and brother?

Sam put a palm to his head, feeling the blood pulsing through it like a nail gun. Of all the times for this to happen, it had to be now while Dean lay at death’s door. He couldn’t cope with it all, not now. “Do you?” He snapped unintentionally. “Did your mother burn while you lay in your crib? Did your girlfriend burn above you while you lay sleeping?”

“No,” Kyle confessed in a quiet, sorrowful voice, his eyes glimmering with despair. “But, I have seen far worse.” He swallowed hard, choking back bile as jaded, brutal imagery played across his mind like some Tarantino movie. “I’ve seen what the dark forces of this world can really do to our kind, Sam. If they cannot take us, control us, then eventually, you and I will succumb to their idea of death just like the others have. It’s not pretty.”

Sam’s head cocked to one side in uncertainty. “Others? You mean babies and their mothers?”

“Sometimes,” Kyle conceded with a tiny bob of his head. “Sometimes I have seen more. Be careful, Sam. Just because we are different, they can and will control us if we are weak.”

The demon’s oratory abruptly reverberated inside Sam’s head, bouncing around until it almost physically hurt. ‘My plans for you, Sammy. You... and all the children like you’. “Control us how?” Sam suddenly believed the priest had more answers than anyone. If only they had met sooner. He shrugged it off. Better late than never.

When Dean recovered they could perhaps finish the demon after all, with the help of the newcomer. If Dean recovered. Despite his efforts, the morose thought just had to creep back in, undermining all his determination to the contrary.

“Sam Osbourne?”

Sam recognized the tone as that of the female ER doctor. She was standing with a clipboard at the end of the waiting room, searching for him through the late night crowd of usual drunks and drug addicts that frequented the place. He stood up, his tall frame easily allowing the physician to spot him.

The priest looked taken aback as he rose, and then mouthed the name Osbourne in confusion.

Sam allowed himself a small smile. It had been Dean’s idea for the latest batch of fake I.D.’s “Ozzy,” he mouthed with a bemused look as he headed towards the awaiting doctor.

Sam didn’t like doctors, not even when they were as pretty as the one standing before him now. Doctors meant illness, and illness reminded him of death all-too much. Death- well, that was something he dealt with every day, at least the ethereal remnants Death left behind.

“I’m Doctor Fletcher.” The physician, still in surgical greens, offered a free hand. “I dealt with your brother’s case when he was first brought into the ER.”

Sam nodded, reading her hospital nametag to see her first name was Helen. He remembered speaking to her just over an hour earlier, although on that occasion she hadn’t introduced herself. In Sam's experience, formal introductions from medical staff usually preceded bad news, and her dour expression seemed to confirm his worst fears. Was that pity in her eyes?

“How is he?” Sam dared to ask in an almost whispery voice.

“I’m sorry…”

Sam’s stomach felt like he’d suddenly leapt from the summit of Everest in a kamikaze dive. He put a hand to his mouth but found he couldn’t speak. It couldn’t be happening again, not like last time. It wasn’t fair that Dean took the brunt of everything this way. It should be me in there. Why isn’t it ever me?

The doctor flinched apologetically, knowing Sam had taken too much already, but continued her painful explanation. Telling families their loved ones were dying was never an easy task, and it was one Helen had performed too many times in her, thus far short, career at St. Mary’s. “Dr. McKenzie is one of our best surgeons. He did everything he could to stop the internal bleeding the accident caused. He did manage to find and repair most of the major injuries, but there is still some significant diffuse bleeding. Your brother's heartbeat has become erratic due to the continued blood loss and shock, and we couldn't risk keeping him under anesthesia any longer. He's simply too unstable. We’d have lost him there and then if we’d proceeded any further.”

Sam felt a lump form at the back of his throat, and no matter how many times he swallowed, or how hard, it wouldn’t budge. “You’re telling me he might die?” The words came out in a half-choke, and he unexpectedly had the urge to sit down before his weakening legs let him drop. He knew it was worse than ‘might,’ but he refused to let his lips say it.

The doctor noticed he appeared unsteady and pulled out a plastic chair for him to sit down. It was a rickety old thing that had long since seen better days, but it did the job. “At this point, it’s more likely when,” she clarified softly. “Dean is still losing blood, albeit more slowly, but there’s nothing more we can do to stop it at this point. We're continuing to transfuse him, but if the bleeding isn't stopped, he won't make it. Again, I'm sorry.”

“What if it stopped on its own?” Sam shook his head, unable to accept that this was the end. He would clutch at any straw, any last vestige of hope until nothing remained. “Tell me it’s not possible?” He challenged. Every gig they had done and every life they had saved couldn’t culminate in this. Dean was too young, too full of life to have it wasted in one night.

“Possible, yes, but unlikely. He's unable to maintain his blood pressure, and his system is shutting down.” Helen conceded with a slight sigh. “We’re not expecting any miracles, Mr. Osbourne. You have to be ready to accept that he isn't going to stabilize enough for us to finish repairing the damage.” She shifted the clipboard under her arm uneasily.

For some reason, this family was different to Helen. There was something she couldn’t put her finger on but definitely something at once tragic, endearing, somehow hopeful, and undeniably mysterious. The doctor could not even fathom a guess as to what could possibly explain the strange nature of both injured men’s wounds. Had the young man before her been in better shape, she would probably have questioned him about them, but from his pallor and the cut to his head she thought better of her interrogation.

“There has to be something…” Tears began to well in Sam’s eyes, but this time he willfully stifled them back. He’d been told it was hopeless before, but he hadn’t given in then. He wouldn’t give in now, either.

The conversation from all those months ago floated back to him through the fog of despair, and he welcomed the distraction.

We’ve done all we can. We can try and keep him comfortable at this point. But, I’d give him a couple weeks, at most, maybe a month.

No, no. There’s—there’s gotta be something you can do, some kind of treatment.

We can’t work miracles. I really am sorry.

Miracles could happen. Just because Roy Le Grange had been a fake didn’t mean he should give up on Dean yet.

“Does my father know?” Sam had no doubt John would shrug it off, just like he had before. Perhaps that one dark thought bothered Sam the most. A father should nurture his children, watch over them, love them. John had once done those things, those things and so much more, but since Mary’s death, that had changed.

“There was a police officer taking his statement when I last checked in the treatment room. We have to report all gun shot wounds, as I’m sure you’re aware.” Helen leaned over, tentatively probing Sam’s head wound through his blood-matted hair even though he hadn’t complained about it. The cut was quite deep, biting into his scalp almost to his skull. It needed suturing, and she would have seen that even if she hadn't been a doctor. “You need to get that looked at,” she offered, showing the younger brother a concerned scowl.

Sam flinched back. He didn’t want pampering. He didn't have time to worry about superficial cuts and bleeding that had already stopped. He needed to be the one to tell his father about Dean. That kind of news shouldn’t come from some well-meaning doctor who'd mince words and try to put the man at ease. John didn't deserve to be offered comfort while Dean lay dying. John, it seemed, had lost the ability to feel compassion, and as far as Sam was concerned, he didn't deserve to receive it either.

“I’d like to tell my father,” he said, pushing up from the seat he’d been given with a little more strength than he’d had moments earlier. Funny, how temper tended to revitalize a weary body.

The doctor nodded and gestured to a side room. After John’s scan had come back clear he’d been taken to have his leg cleaned up and dressed, and his head wound sutured.

As they neared, a local uniformed cop flipped back the curtain and exited. He flicked his notebook closed and waved to the doctor with a smile. Apparently, he’d gotten what he’d come for and was satisfied.

Sam watched as the cop sauntered away down the corridor. What Winchester lie had been weaved this time? After all, John was the master both he and Dean had studied under- not even Dean could spin a yarn like his dad. Sam turned back abruptly when he heard Helen address his father.

“Mr. Osbourne, your son is here.”

John sat waiting patiently on a gurney, his thickly dressed leg propped up to help ease any swelling. He looked distant, unfocused. And when Sam took a step closer he almost balked. For just a second, Sam could have sworn he saw the evil, yellow stained hue in his father’s eyes that signified the demon.

The flash of deep-set color was there only briefly, perhaps even an invention of Sam’s fatigued and tormented mind, but it was enough to raise suspicion.

Sam stepped back, his eyes darting from the doctor and back to John with both fear and determination. If the thing was here, he would finish it for Dean. He had no Colt, no exorcism rites, but he would choke the life from it with his bare hands if he had too.

John watched his son’s actions with a slow, almost painful gaze. His mind was clouded by both his head injury and the medications he’d been given. “Sammy?” He peered at the doctor, unsure why his own flesh and blood should suddenly back away from him. “Son, it’s gone. You know that…”

Helen pulled a face that said she’d had enough from both men. John had been stubborn and unhelpful since his admission, and Sam was now acting like he had a day release from the psyche ward. “What’s gone?” She demanded, tossing the clipboard onto the gurney perilously close to John’s wounded leg.

“Nothing.” John’s deep tones filled the treatment room with a one-word statement that clearly said ‘butt out’ even if it came over a lot politer.

Sam still hovered by the entrance, undecided if he should speak or attack. He rubbed at his brow but finally accepted that his emotions had probably just gotten the better of him. Something had gotten the better of him, and at this point, there were far too many somethings to blame any single one.

“Dad, we have to talk. It’s Dean.” He finally struggled to say through gritted teeth. Talking to John had always been difficult, but now, like this, it was near on impossible.

John swallowed, still looking unconcerned despite Sam’s severe expression. “He’ll be alright, Sam.”

“No, no he won’t. Don’t you see that?” The tension was just too much. Sam didn’t care anymore how he came across in front of the doctor. For all he knew he could still be talking to a demon, anyway. “Dad, Dean is dying! And even if he weren't, there's no way in hell that you can honestly believe he'll ever be alright after what happened back there tonight!”

Again, Sam perceived the unmistakable flick of yellow color in his father’s eyes as his words sank it. It couldn’t be his imagination twice, could it?

Sam blinked and then realized with a hint of shame that perhaps it could just be his eyes playing tricks. An overhead fluorescent tube was blinking intermittently as its useful life almost came to an end. The light and shadows it cast in the already glum hospital room made even the doctor’s eyes seem suddenly sallow. Still, he wasn’t convinced. Shouldn’t John now be barking for answers about Dean?

Instead, the injured father simply looked at Sam with a confused expression. His eyes twinkled for a second with something that Sam could only describe as mirth. Funny. How the hell could it be funny to think your eldest child was dying? Unless, of course, John was still not truly John.

You’re looking into the eyes of the demon. You should leave here. Get the Colt…

Sam ignored the taunting voice in his head and simply stared at his father with his mouth slightly agape.

Get the Colt. Finish it…

“A- hem,” Helen cleared her throat and then put her attention on John. She’d seen many a parent look this way after an accident involving their kids. Shock made them say lots of things, and that’s all she could credit John’s behavior to right now. Either that or he was the most heartless bastard she’d ever met. “Mr. Osbourne, I’m so sorry, but your son is right. We've done all we can for now, but Dean will most likely not come out of this.” She came out with it, cold and blunt- it was possibly the only way it might hit home hard enough to shock John to his senses.

John's expression changed. More surprise, but still no compassion. For a moment, Helen thought he was going to argue with her and tell her she didn’t know her own job. He didn’t but instead swung his legs off the gurney in an attempt to stand.

The move cost him dearly. White-hot tendrils of pain pulsed through his leg, threatening to make his muscles give way and let him fall. Each step was like walking through a thick quagmire whilst having an alligator munching on his thigh.

John inhaled sharply and grabbed the side rail of the gurney, but he didn’t try to sit back down.

The doctor glanced over to Sam, expecting the younger son to hold out a hand to steady his father, but he didn’t. He simply stared like a man who truly hated his own parent.

John struggled to the front of the cubicle and let his gaze fall upon Helen. “I’d like to see my boy.” His voice remained neutral, not even a minute glimmer of love flickered in his eyes.

“We don’t normally allow visitors,” Helen hesitated. Perhaps the only way to prove how hopeless the situation was meant letting John see Dean. “Since this might be the last time you might see him to say your goodbyes, however…”

John nodded his thanks and patiently waited for the doctor to turn tail towards the room in the surgical recovery bay where Dean was being tended. He didn’t look at Sam, not until Sam quietly began to follow.

“No, Sammy. I want to be alone with him.” It was an order, not a request. The commanding tone left nothing open to interpretation. There would be no last family goodbyes, no last apologies from John to his sons before Dean died.

The order was just one small step too far. Sam shook his head in derision and whirled about, tears of anger swelling in his eyes as he stormed away from his father. Had it not been for Dean, he would have left the hospital and found the nearest train back to Kansas- or worse, he would have punched his dad out in front of the whole ER staff.

Maybe that was what John needed. Maybe after all this time he’d come to see Dean and Sam as soldiers so much that the thought of them being zipped up in some body bag was just like another day at the office. Sam rubbed at his eyes, willing the moisture to leave them as he realized he and his brother were merely pawns in their father’s grand plan against the demon. Guess you should have had more kids, Dad. Your army’s running out of foot soldiers…

Get the Colt…

The idea wouldn’t go away. Sam wasn’t sure if it was his innermost psyche goading him for not shooting his dad and the demon when he had the chance or if it was simply common sense.

He looked down at his hands and realized for the first time that they were trembling uncontrollably. Even if he had the Colt he wouldn’t be able to aim it and actually hit a target. Dean would have laughed and said he looked like some rookie after his first hunt. Dean, the one thing that kept him sane. The one thing he would never be prepared to lose.

Sam took a deep breath and decided he needed coffee- lots of it. He ruffled a hand through his hair and winced as he scraped over his forgotten head injury. Blood came away on his palm, but he ignored it in favor of the beckoning vending machine in the adjoining corridor.

Shakily, he slipped in some loose change and selected ‘black, no sugar.’ The machine clicked as a Styrofoam cup dropped into place, and then hissed as Sam’s piping hot drink was dispensed. He took the cup carefully, trying to steady his still quivering hand enough not to spill the beverage.

As an afterthought, he looked up, searching the lessening crowd for his priest friend. Guiltily, he realized he had left the man who had come to their aid in favour of bawling John out.

Sam frowned. Unless the priest had stepped out to stretch is legs or use the bathroom, he’d gone without even introducing himself.

Setting his coffee down, Sam circled the room a couple of times to be sure, but the Winchesters' savior was nowhere to be seen. Tiredly, he took a seat next to his cooling drink and put his head in his hands. Without Dean’s ever-present confidence, Sam suddenly felt deflated. He was alone. His own father shunned him. The priest had vanished. Mom and Jess were dead.

No one wants to be around you. No one can be around you and be safe. You’re a pariah. A bad luck symbol to all who befriend you. Your father hates you…

Sam banged his fist into his temple as the miasma of words in his head became harsher, stinging like a hornet’s tail.

Don’t you see the only person who has shown an interest in you all your life is the demon? You belong with him. You’re not like ordinary men. Haven’t you ever wondered why? You’re a freak- a freak who belongs with his own kind…

“No!” Sam yelped out so loudly that half the waiting patients stopped their conversations and turned to gawk at him. When he offered no explanation for the outburst, most returned to their busy nattering, while others continued to gape as if security needed to be called.

Sam could understand their worry. Looking down at his clothes, he appreciated the fact that he probably looked like a blood-covered vagrant. Add to that his very odd behaviour and he was definitely a case for the men in the white coats. He took a sip of his drink and slowly swallowed, hoping the caffeine would kick start his rambling mind into some sense of normalcy. It didn’t. The voice still tempted him, thrashing around in his subconscious like a shark that had smelled the sweet aroma of blood.

Why fight it Sam? Embrace what you are. Accept that your family is gone and your father hates you. The demon thought more of his children than your father does. Even now do you really think he’s in there telling Dean how much love and respect he has for him?

Sam knew his thoughts were dark, wrong even, but the nagging truth was, some of those thoughts were right on the money. Just why had it taken him so long to realize?

St. Mary’s Health Center Surgical Recovery
3.24a.m.

Helen Fletcher guided John into the hospital’s surgical area and wondered if she shouldn’t insist on staying with him throughout his visit. The Osbournes were clearly an unstable family, and she seriously didn’t know what to expect next from them.

“It’s this way,” she gestured to the second door on the left side of the hallway and paused outside it. John hobbled painfully along at his best pace behind and appeared surprised when she stopped. “Dean’s been unconscious almost since he was brought in, and at this stage, it’s doubtful he’ll wake again. That doesn’t mean he can’t hear you. There’s plenty of research that suggests unconscious or comatose patients know they’re being spoken too.” Helen sighed, from John’s expression she would just have to come right out with what she was trying to convey. “Just make your last words count,” she raised a brow. “I get the feeling your family usually lacks in the sympathy department.”

John looked up into the doctor’s eyes and she half expected a deep, grumbling retort. Instead, for the first time she heard his voice crack with emotion. It was as if bringing him here to face the door between life and death had finally broken through his titanium-armored mental defenses. “How long?” He asked resignedly.

Helen noted he couldn’t look her in the eye as he asked the question. His eyes darted to the stark, sterile walls- anywhere but face her and the facts. “A few hours at most.”

John nodded in understanding and put his weight into swinging open the door. He didn’t look back at the doctor, and she didn’t follow him as he shuffled inside.

Once the door clicked back into place, John let his full gaze fall on Dean’s immobile, failing form. It was strange, but apart from his ashen complexion and dark-rimmed eyes, he appeared to be sleeping peacefully. It had been a long time since John had seen his son that way. Memories jogged back to better times, when a tiny Dean had been gurgling in his crib demanding fatherly attention and John had readily given it.

John licked his parched lips and limped closer. Each move caused immeasurable physical and mental pain. When he was close enough, he tugged at a chair placed by the wall for visitors and quickly parked himself at Dean’s bedside.

For a time, he remained silent, watching as Dean’s blue hospital gown rose and fell pitifully slowly with his ragged, laborious breathing. The obedient little soldier was hurt. No more could he carry out orders and protect his brother like a good sergeant. No more could he be Sam’s ever-watchful guardian. And no more would he be able to give himself to save another. He'd finally given all there was to give.

John rubbed at his beard with his left hand wondering how he had let things come to this. In his quest for revenge he had left things unspoken, kept the door to his feelings closed, and now it was probably too late to ever reopen it.

He sniffed, coughing back in an attempt to quell any tears that may be surfacing. He needed to be strong. He needed to show Dean a Winchester never gave up on anything. Dean could live, if he wanted to. John just hoped his words, twisted by the demon and spat hatefully at his son, hadn't removed any desire Dean still had to go on.

“Dean, if you can hear me, I want you to know that this is my fault. My fault entirely, not your brother’s.” John sniffled again. He could no longer quell long overdue sentiments. “I don’t expect you to understand this, but the demon killed your mother because of me. I had no idea, you have to believe that, but now that I do I can’t drag you into the fight anymore. I’ve done enough to you and Sam.”

John tugged a small plastic bag from his pocket and ruffled through its contents until he found the item he was looking for. He slipped the item into his hand and then laid the remaining contents on Dean’s bedside table.

The nurse who had dressed his leg had easily gotten Dean’s personal items that were removed when he was rushed into the ER. John was now returning them with the hope his son would one day use them again. Dean’s ring glistened under the soft opal lighting, reminding the father of better times, as did the small silver flask Bobby had once given him. They were so few and insignificant, these items, not nearly enough to show for an entire life, but then a life on the road was a harsh one. So much of it was lost to the dust and endless miles, so much that could never be recovered.

John felt a surge of remorse as he realized the kind of young man he had fashioned. Dean was a good son, a son to be proud of, but he had never really lived; hunting was all he'd been allowed to know. I deprived him of a home, of love, of a family…God, he deserved so much better.

“You have to live, Dean. You have to get away from here. Take Sammy, protect him…” John began to cry, and for the first time in front of either of his sons, he held nothing back. He wept freely, taking the burden of his wife’s death and his sons’ unfair upbringing on his shoulders. Life wasn’t fair, but he’d bend the rules to make it so if he had to. It wouldn’t be the first time.

John strangled back his feelings enough to watch Dean for any signs of a reaction. Just one movement, one twitch of an eyelid to show his son was still in the dying shell before him, but Dean remained unresponsive. The monitor he was hooked to continued to chart his struggling heartbeat, and the IVs continued to feed his failing system with vital fluids.

John nodded to himself. What had he expected? A miracle? He opened his palm and looked down at the thing in his hand. The thing he had long ago given Dean as a charm for protection. The ancient face in its design smiled back up at him mockingly, daring him to chide it for his son’s current condition.

John smiled wanly and let the amulet dangle in front of him on the leather twine that held it. It glistened almost playfully in the light. Of course, the gods would be laughing at this pathetic mortal weakness.

Carefully, John rolled the twine and amulet into a ball and then leaned forward, opening Dean’s lifeless hand to place the charm in his palm.

Once safely placed, he gently curled Dean’s fingers back around it. “Son, didn’t I tell you never to take this off?” John smiled again through bleary eyes, remembering the boy’s face as he’d watched his dad produce the charm. Though it had been only a little over a year ago, Dean had seemed so much younger then, so much more trusting and hopeful, and John knew that he'd been the one to break that trust, crushing that hope when he walked away. Yet he couldn't be sorry for doing what he'd known then was what had to be done. At least he'd left the amulet in his place.

John wanted to tell his son just how much he loved him, how much he loved both boys, had always done what he believed to be in their best interest, but it didn't feel right to be thinking such final thoughts. There would be another day, another time. Today, John had to be the strength of the family, the leader with no emotion once more. “Live, Dean, that’s an order,” he commanded quietly.

Dean was bored. For the past few hours his mind had done nothing but float from one reminiscence to the next, and he’d had enough of it. He should be out kicking demon ass, or at least chatting up some hot chick. Exactly what was going on eluded him, but right now he was making the assumption that he was dreaming.

At least, that was what it felt like. His mind was bogged down in some ethereal fog he couldn’t seem to escape or wake from. Memories came thick and fast from both recent events and his childhood. Dreaming, more like a frickin’ nightmare!

Then, his father’s voice had come, weak, upset, and foreign- not the voice of the man Dean had come to follow without question, but a shadow of him, a weaker shadow that showed emotions and had the time to shed a tear for his dying son.

Dean heard his father’s confessions as if he were swimming deep under water. The sounds of John’s voice were muted, fuzzy, but still discernable.

“Son, didn’t I tell you never to take this off?”

The sentence glued itself in Dean’s subconscious, refusing to budge even though his mind wanted to recall other events. In an instant, the twenty-seven year old found his unconscious world turn upside down in a kaleidoscope effect, scenes from the present quickly melding into a memory from the past.

"Oh, you gotta be kiddin' me," Dean said, his hands and his head shaking simultaneously in a gesture that could only mean, 'nuh-uh, no friggin' way.' "A necklace? We drove all the way out here to Steambath, USA, home of Wile E. Alligator and giant pterodactyl mosquitoes for jewelry?"

His father took the pendant from the long-fingered, weathered hand of the twisted old codger who apparently owned this fine hovel. The place was so far back in the swamp that the atmosphere was alive with the incessant wailing of whatever slimy, creepy-crawlies thrived in air so heavy it was practically devoid of oxygen.

Normally, Dean was not one to question his father's actions. Blind trust and obedience were the glue that made their relationship work. But the stifling swamp afternoon had a way of stifling free thought and inhibitions. It was easy to understand why the crime rate was markedly higher in the hottest summer months.

John looked at the old man, (priest, shaman, witch doctor, Dean couldn't remember which), and made eye contact as he spoke. His son didn't really see the point of that gesture, other than deeply engrained courtesy and mannerisms, as the man to whom he was speaking appeared to be completely blind, staring blankly through white cataracts. It was probably good that he couldn't see, or he would most likely have been bothered by the long strings of matching white hair that hung greasily over his haggard features.

"The ritual's been completed?" John asked of their host.

"It is done," the holy man answered. "He is the firstborn, is he not?"

"Yes," John replied. "You're certain this is authentic?"

"This, John Winchester, is more ancient than your Christian God. If it is not authentic, then much energy has been expended preserving a worthless trinket," the man assured.

"Oh, old jewelry," Dean snarked, "that changes everything." He reached out toward the dangling amulet with a smirk on his face. "If nothing else, I can pawn it for gas money." His fingers touched the necklace, and a charge went through him that reminded him of the time the coffee pot had shorted out on the stainless steel countertop. "Ow!" He snapped, drawing back quickly.

Their host laughed dryly, revealing a toothless mouth between thin, wrinkled lips. "Ah, it knows you, firstborn. It is truly meant for you."

Dean's eyebrows lowered, and he pulled his head back without stepping to follow. "No offense, dude, but I don't do jewelry."

"Dean," his father said sternly.

"Yes, sir?"

"Shut up, son."

"Yes, sir," Dean relented, dropping his eyes submissively.

John took the necklace and let the pendant unwind gradually on the leather string as the loop opened. When it had fully extended, he took the rope in both hands and lifted it over his son's head. Dean felt himself cringe in anticipation, expecting to be shocked again as the horned figure made contact with his chest, and he flushed slightly in embarrassment when the charge didn't come.

"Dean," John explained, staring deeply into his eldest son's hazel eyes, "I went to a lot of trouble to find this for you. It's extremely powerful, and that's all you need to know. If you have ever trusted me on anything, I want you to trust me on this, son. You wear this, and never take it off."

Dean raised one eyebrow in surprise, and ran his fingers under the twisted leather string uncomfortably as he twisted his head sideways. "But it itches. And like, I'm even supposed to wear it in the shower? Even during. . . well, what if I meet a hot chick?"

"What part of NEVER don’t' you understand?" John asked, his eyes livid with impatience.

Dean looked down at the charm skeptically, and back up at his father through his long eyelashes. "Well, all right. But if the other little boys beat me up for wearing girlie jewelry, you're gonna owe me way more than the extra cookie."

His efforts to lighten the mood failed dismally, however.

"Never, Dean."

Dean wrapped his hand firmly around the pendant, allowing the cool metal to dig into his palm and waited for his father to turn away before his smirk faltered. He didn't know what had just happened, but he had a feeling it was important. And that scared the hell out of him.

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