The Hours Part 4
A/N: Sorry for the delay, I was at the beach! Medusa needed to rest her snakes. :) Just so you guys know, even when I'm absent, I'm always working on this 'verse: I got a ton more written for later installments. The boys are never far from my mind. Thank you all for your fantastic reviews and patience! <3 <3 <3
***
The doctor was giving Sam a reflex test.
Sam wasn’t having it.
He’d started keening the second Dean moved out of his vision, and the more the doctors poked and prodded and shone lights at him, the longer, higher, and more urgent his whine became. Dean finally wrestled his way back to his brother’s bedside and laid a hand on his arm, and was rewarded with his brother focusing on him instantly.
“Listen, Sammy-this is your favorite thing. A test to ace. You can do it, okay? I’ll stand here.”
Sam whined at him.
“Kiddo, I’m here. I know your whole space/time thing is screwed right now, but I’m not gone just because you can’t see me. I’m two steps away.”
Sam started to cry. Dean’s face softened.
“C’mon now,” he murmured, wiping his brother’s cheeks. “You know I won’t leave you. You know that. You don’t have to see it.”
Sam reached out, suddenly, hand fumbling over Dean’s shirt. Dean couldn’t stave off his embarrassment, looking like he was being felt up by his kid brother, until Sam’s clumbsy fingers landed on the charm around his neck, and gripped fast. Dean smiled then, slipping his hand over his brother’s fist.
“There’s my boy,” Dean murmured, smiling and wiping the tears. “I want you to Rocky this thing, y’hear?” Sam pressed his face into his brother’s palm. Dean rubbed his thumb over his brother’s cheek. “Right here. M’right here. Watch.” Dean detached himself from his brother and backed slowly away, keeping a warm smile on his face. Sam watched him, then slowly pulled his eyes back toward the doctors, than looked quickly back to his brother. A second time, keeping his gaze a little longer on the hospital staff, and then, the third time, seemingly satisfied that Dean wasn’t going to vanish when he turned his head, he lay still.
“Alright, Sam,” the first doc, the one from the ER, gave him a kind smile. “You just do the best you can. No right or wrong here. Nothing here is meant to hurt.”
Dean has to admit he was wrong to hate the doctor that night. He’s a decent guy. He doesn’t talk to Sam like a baby, the way some of the nurses do, and he doesn’t poke and prod and ignore Sam’s whines, the way this one dick of a doctor had done. He’s very calm and steady and explains everything he’s doing to Sam and Dean both, and when Bobby got in his face and barked about results he’d just said Sam was doing great, and they all needed to let his body call the shots now.
Yeah...Dean liked him. He’d never been partial to doctors of any type, but he could see how having a decent one around could be handy. He guessed they saw so much chaos that it gave them a pretty strong perception of what was panic worthy.
He could have done without the tranq he’d issued that night...but considering Dean had been doing his best Meryl Streep impression, he couldn’t fault him for it.
Sammy starts off every new test by looking over to check that Dean hadn’t run off, and Dean just smiles, although it’s obvious that his brother’s not doing so hot. His perception’s off, and his coordination, and even though he can lift his arms, holding them up and steady to point toward the colors, shapes, and numbers is clearly exhausting him. The doctor finally gives a quick nod to his assistant and lowers the bed a bit, smiling warmly down at the younger Winchester.
“You’re doing just fine,” he said. “I know it may not feel like it, but as you improve and begin rehabilitation exercises, you’ll be amazed how much easier it gets.” He shines a light in Sam’s eyes and nods. “I’m going to speak to your brother for you, alright? Get some rest.”
Dean suddenly wishes he hadn’t let Bobby and Ellen go home for showers, food, and sleep. He really wants them to hear this too. In case he freaks out again.
You’re not going to. You’re going to stay here and listen and take it in calmly and cooly, because that’s what Sam needs.
Dean felt suddenly, achingly, alone. He wanted his trusty geekboy next to him, and if not, than his adopted parents, and if not them, then his real Dad, and if not them...then...someone. Someone who wanted to support him. Someone who didn’t mind supporting him.
“He’s doing alright,” the doctor said. “I’d hoped his vision would have improved, so I’m going to ask for an ophthalmologist consult, just to be sure there’s no nerve damage.”
“Why can’t he speak?”
“There’s still swelling and fluid built up around the skull. It should drain naturally as he heals. If not, we’ll do a procedure and drain it for him. But I believe the body should have a chance to do its job.”
Sam let out a whine, apparently fed up with having Dean out of his vision. Dean approached the bed and smiled down at his brother.
“You’re doing great bud. Doc says you’re gonna be good as new.”
Sam looked at him, looked at the doctor, and began to cry, and Dean doesn’t need a test to know that his brother’ hadn’t understood.
*
The best thing about Sammy is how happy he is. He gets excited over the littlest things-birds, cars, rain, commercials, music, Dean walking into a room, Dean hiding behind a pillow, Dean reaching out to tickle him, Dean clapping his hands. When Dean starts to miss his Mom or wish his Dad was how he remembered him, it seemed like Sammy always pulled him out of it by being so happy that there were things like wooden blocks and goofy noises and shadows-even his Dad had laughed watching Sammy utterly baffled by his own shadow, than setting off to capture it-that all of a sudden Dean couldn’t feel bad about anything anymore.
Sam might think everything in the world is special, but Dean knows he’s special to Sam, and that makes him feel ten stories tall, even when grief feels infinitely taller.
*
Sam couldn’t tell time.
That was the first thing that had really scared him. It wasn’t even the fact that he didn’t understand words, or that he was in pain, or that strangers kept poking and shining things at him-none of that mattered, as long as Dean was there, and he could always tell when he was. Dean’s hands felt like Dean’s, and his voice sounded like Dean’s, and when he leaned into his line of sight Sam felt a pull, a tug of sanity and recognition. When he wasn’t there, everything was just haze and hurt and loss, and all he wanted was for Dean to come back and make it better.
Most people only saw his brother’s bravado, his surly defenses, his cocky, rebellious attitude. Girls at bars sometimes got a glimpse of the innate charm, but Dean didn’t go after girls looking for anything beyond a few rounds of fun. Men-and Sam knew, although he didn’t think Dean realized that he knew, that his brother had also slept with men-probably didn’t even get that: Sam had long had a nagging worry that the men Dean went to bed with didn’t even bother with the bed, or even leave the bar bathroom.
But here, any traces of those Deans were gone. There was another one reserved just for Sam, one who was open and gentle, who had tucked him in at night, who made him talk about things that bothered him, who held him when he cried and rubbed his back when he was sick, who’d cheered louder than any of the other parents at Sam’s soccer games and never complained when Sam fell asleep on his shoulder when they watched TV, just dropped an arm around him and supported his neck so he wouldn’t feel sore when he woke.
This was his Dean: the one who hummed to him when he cried, and gave him meds when he hurt, and kept touching him gently so Sam knew someone who loved him was there, watching over him.
Except...Sam couldn’t tell how long he’d been there. He didn’t know if he was still eighteen, or twenty-one, or thirty-five. He didn’t know if Dean had been there every day, or part of a few days, or once every couple of weeks.
Or maybe months.
Or maybe years.
He hated the long, whiny sounds he made-the only ones he could make, because his damn tongue wasn’t working right-but when he made them, he meant them: he wanted Dean to come back, to explain all this, to explain the confusion, to wipe his tears and sing, and, while part of himself realized that he should let Dean go on with his life, another part, a selfish part, just wanted him to stay, and stay forever.
Right now, Dean was trying to flip through the channels on the TV. With the reduced drugs, Sam could focus on it for longer, and he was getting more and more bits of language. Not full sentences quite yet, but he understood enough to know that he’d had a bad head injury, and that he wasn’t going anywhere soon, and that he was loaded up with pain killers, and a few tranqs to keep him calm and still.
Dean, he gathered, was swearing as he tried to use the controller to find a sports game of any kind.
“Think-damn-then-stu,” Sam got. Dean stepped a little too close to the door for Sam’s taste, and Sam let out a whine to let him know it.
“-am-switch-ew-itch!” Dean came back closer, suddenly smiling. “-ook!”
Sam couldn’t see the screen. He’d always prided himself on his perfect vision, but it was all a blur to him now. His coordination was a mess too-he could tell he’d failed all the tests they’d tried to give him, and when he’d tried to grab the amulet he’d given Dean, he kept seeing his hands close around it while he felt nothing but shirt.
Sam hadn’t even realized he’d started crying until Dean made a soft noise and started wiping at his face.
“-ame-ight? Shhhh.”
Sam made a few stabs until he finally got the amulet against his palm. His brother smiled down at him.
“-ift-‘ou. -ber?”
I don’t know. I don’t know anything. Dean, fix this. Fix me.
And, like Dean heard him, his brother took his hand, squeezed tight, perched on the edge of the bed, and began to sing.
*
Sammy was gearing up to crawl.
He’d started by rolling onto his belly, flailing a bit, and then getting up on all fours. Dean and his Dad would crouch nearby, smiling and clapping, and calling “come on, Sammy! Come on!” And Sammy would giggle and rock back and forth and move a wobbly arm or leg, and then go flat. Sometimes he’d scoot along, using his feet to push himself: other times, he’d just flail and whine until one of them went to scoop him upright.
“You know how you learned to crawl?” John asks dean one night, while they’re both trying to tempt Sammy toward them.
“No,” Dean says, clapping at Sammy, who giggles and falls flat on his little tummy.
“You were scooting in the upstairs hallway. Your mother was doing laundry and yelled for me to grab you, because you were close to the stairs. I said ‘don’t worry, honey, he can’t crawl.’ And just like that, you got up on all fours and beelined to your death,” John chuckled and shook his head. “I grabbed you just in time. Your mother started screaming, you started crying, and I was sure we’d never get you to do it again.”
Dean suddenly wants to cry. It had never occurred to him that Sammy being able to move on his own might mean that he could get himself hurt. He remembers that terrifying moment he plummeted off the table, and the heat at his back as he ran with the little boy in his arms, and he wants to grab his brother up and shield him from the whole world.
“It’s okay Dean,” John soothes, rubbing his eldest’s head. “It’s good. All it means is we have to watch him. Just like, after that, your mother and I never took our eyes off of you.”
Dean stares hopelessly at his brother. Sam’s eyes meet his. He grins, gets up on all fours, looks straight at his brother, and takes his first real, solid move forward.
*
When John had come home and seen the kitchen, he’d promptly staggered back outside, stumbled off the porch, and vomited at the edge of the yard.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t think.
It took awhile to convince himself that what he was seeing wasn’t as bad as he thought and venture back in.
But it was as bad.
There was the broken bottle of whiskey, the one John had vague memories of snatching up and swinging with all his might at his youngest son’s head. There was blood everywhere, dried a crazy bright red, like a horror movie set. It had sprayed on the counters and walls and all over the floor, and it wasn’t all from the bottle-John knew he’d launched himself at his son, and Sammy had landed a few good hits of his own before John had gone for the Red Label.
Sammy...
In the center of the kitchen, away from the overturned tables and chairs, was a puddle with a distinct mark at the base: the mark of his youngest’s head. And around the blood were bits of footprints: Dean’s, the paramedics-strangers dispatched to save his boy’s life.
And it wasn’t John there, comforting and reassuring his son-it was his big brother.
Dean, his good boy, his loyal boy.
Dean, who’d plotted his escape with his brother as if John didn’t exist at all.
And why shouldn’t he? This is it-this is what you do to your children. This is what you did to the family’s baby. To Mary’s baby.
It wasn’t his fault. He’d been drinking. He hadn’t been thinking like a father. If the boys had just told him when he was sober it would have been different. He shouldn’t have had to find out like this. It wasn’t fair.
He hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t meant to.
“I’m sorry,” he told the bloody pool. “I’m sorry, Sammy. Dean...”
But of course, there was no one there to answer back.
*
One night, John’s cooking dinner and loses track of Sammy.
He’s about six beers in, squinting at the recipe book, slicing Italian bread to go with the baked ziti, and he leaves the oven door open. Dean is bent over his model and Sammy has been banging pots and pans on the kitchen floor. John doesn’t notice when he stops, crawls to investigate the light in the oven, and puts his hand inside the door.
He just hears his boy start screaming.
Dean comes running in, screams “Daddy!” as John seizes the boy and yanks him away. Sammy’s hand is already turning red as John gets it under the cold stream of the sink. The boy cries louder and longer and kicks, like the water burns too.
And that’s when John realizes he’s turned the knob on “hot” instead of “cold.”
He stumbles away, the baby clutched against his chest, the enormity of his failure threatening to eat him alive.
And then Dean’s there, reaching, pulling the little boy into his arms and saying “it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay Sammy.” He’s got a wrapped popsicle out of the freezer and he presses it to his brother’s throbbing palm. Sammy wails a little and Dean says “I know,” and starts to sing “Miss Mary Mack,” which for some reason Sam loves.
The baby hiccups and continues to cry, but quieter now. Dean hugs him tight and looks accusingly at John, suddenly seeming far older than five.
“What happened?”
“He grabbed the stove...”
“You said you’d watch him.”
“I was cooking,” John says lamely. Dean hitches Sam to his shoulder and pats his back. Sammy sniffs and hiccups again.
“You weren’t watching,” Dean says. “You have to watch him!”
“It was just a little burn, Dean. It’ll heal.”
“Mom didn’t.” Dean’s eyes filled and he clutched his brother tighter. Sam let out a little wail, like he suddenly remembers his Mom is gone.
John wishes with all his soul that it was he who burned that night. That his wife was standing here, sober and clean, cooking for their boys.
He can’t do anything right.
Dean turns and carries Sammy out of the room. Sam looks over his big brother’s shoulder, one fist around the popsicle, the other clinging to Dean’s shirt. His eyes are big and brown and full of tears. And even though he’s being carried away from his father, he doesn’t let go and reach back. Not for a second.
Part 5
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
***
The doctor was giving Sam a reflex test.
Sam wasn’t having it.
He’d started keening the second Dean moved out of his vision, and the more the doctors poked and prodded and shone lights at him, the longer, higher, and more urgent his whine became. Dean finally wrestled his way back to his brother’s bedside and laid a hand on his arm, and was rewarded with his brother focusing on him instantly.
“Listen, Sammy-this is your favorite thing. A test to ace. You can do it, okay? I’ll stand here.”
Sam whined at him.
“Kiddo, I’m here. I know your whole space/time thing is screwed right now, but I’m not gone just because you can’t see me. I’m two steps away.”
Sam started to cry. Dean’s face softened.
“C’mon now,” he murmured, wiping his brother’s cheeks. “You know I won’t leave you. You know that. You don’t have to see it.”
Sam reached out, suddenly, hand fumbling over Dean’s shirt. Dean couldn’t stave off his embarrassment, looking like he was being felt up by his kid brother, until Sam’s clumbsy fingers landed on the charm around his neck, and gripped fast. Dean smiled then, slipping his hand over his brother’s fist.
“There’s my boy,” Dean murmured, smiling and wiping the tears. “I want you to Rocky this thing, y’hear?” Sam pressed his face into his brother’s palm. Dean rubbed his thumb over his brother’s cheek. “Right here. M’right here. Watch.” Dean detached himself from his brother and backed slowly away, keeping a warm smile on his face. Sam watched him, then slowly pulled his eyes back toward the doctors, than looked quickly back to his brother. A second time, keeping his gaze a little longer on the hospital staff, and then, the third time, seemingly satisfied that Dean wasn’t going to vanish when he turned his head, he lay still.
“Alright, Sam,” the first doc, the one from the ER, gave him a kind smile. “You just do the best you can. No right or wrong here. Nothing here is meant to hurt.”
Dean has to admit he was wrong to hate the doctor that night. He’s a decent guy. He doesn’t talk to Sam like a baby, the way some of the nurses do, and he doesn’t poke and prod and ignore Sam’s whines, the way this one dick of a doctor had done. He’s very calm and steady and explains everything he’s doing to Sam and Dean both, and when Bobby got in his face and barked about results he’d just said Sam was doing great, and they all needed to let his body call the shots now.
Yeah...Dean liked him. He’d never been partial to doctors of any type, but he could see how having a decent one around could be handy. He guessed they saw so much chaos that it gave them a pretty strong perception of what was panic worthy.
He could have done without the tranq he’d issued that night...but considering Dean had been doing his best Meryl Streep impression, he couldn’t fault him for it.
Sammy starts off every new test by looking over to check that Dean hadn’t run off, and Dean just smiles, although it’s obvious that his brother’s not doing so hot. His perception’s off, and his coordination, and even though he can lift his arms, holding them up and steady to point toward the colors, shapes, and numbers is clearly exhausting him. The doctor finally gives a quick nod to his assistant and lowers the bed a bit, smiling warmly down at the younger Winchester.
“You’re doing just fine,” he said. “I know it may not feel like it, but as you improve and begin rehabilitation exercises, you’ll be amazed how much easier it gets.” He shines a light in Sam’s eyes and nods. “I’m going to speak to your brother for you, alright? Get some rest.”
Dean suddenly wishes he hadn’t let Bobby and Ellen go home for showers, food, and sleep. He really wants them to hear this too. In case he freaks out again.
You’re not going to. You’re going to stay here and listen and take it in calmly and cooly, because that’s what Sam needs.
Dean felt suddenly, achingly, alone. He wanted his trusty geekboy next to him, and if not, than his adopted parents, and if not them, then his real Dad, and if not them...then...someone. Someone who wanted to support him. Someone who didn’t mind supporting him.
“He’s doing alright,” the doctor said. “I’d hoped his vision would have improved, so I’m going to ask for an ophthalmologist consult, just to be sure there’s no nerve damage.”
“Why can’t he speak?”
“There’s still swelling and fluid built up around the skull. It should drain naturally as he heals. If not, we’ll do a procedure and drain it for him. But I believe the body should have a chance to do its job.”
Sam let out a whine, apparently fed up with having Dean out of his vision. Dean approached the bed and smiled down at his brother.
“You’re doing great bud. Doc says you’re gonna be good as new.”
Sam looked at him, looked at the doctor, and began to cry, and Dean doesn’t need a test to know that his brother’ hadn’t understood.
*
The best thing about Sammy is how happy he is. He gets excited over the littlest things-birds, cars, rain, commercials, music, Dean walking into a room, Dean hiding behind a pillow, Dean reaching out to tickle him, Dean clapping his hands. When Dean starts to miss his Mom or wish his Dad was how he remembered him, it seemed like Sammy always pulled him out of it by being so happy that there were things like wooden blocks and goofy noises and shadows-even his Dad had laughed watching Sammy utterly baffled by his own shadow, than setting off to capture it-that all of a sudden Dean couldn’t feel bad about anything anymore.
Sam might think everything in the world is special, but Dean knows he’s special to Sam, and that makes him feel ten stories tall, even when grief feels infinitely taller.
*
Sam couldn’t tell time.
That was the first thing that had really scared him. It wasn’t even the fact that he didn’t understand words, or that he was in pain, or that strangers kept poking and shining things at him-none of that mattered, as long as Dean was there, and he could always tell when he was. Dean’s hands felt like Dean’s, and his voice sounded like Dean’s, and when he leaned into his line of sight Sam felt a pull, a tug of sanity and recognition. When he wasn’t there, everything was just haze and hurt and loss, and all he wanted was for Dean to come back and make it better.
Most people only saw his brother’s bravado, his surly defenses, his cocky, rebellious attitude. Girls at bars sometimes got a glimpse of the innate charm, but Dean didn’t go after girls looking for anything beyond a few rounds of fun. Men-and Sam knew, although he didn’t think Dean realized that he knew, that his brother had also slept with men-probably didn’t even get that: Sam had long had a nagging worry that the men Dean went to bed with didn’t even bother with the bed, or even leave the bar bathroom.
But here, any traces of those Deans were gone. There was another one reserved just for Sam, one who was open and gentle, who had tucked him in at night, who made him talk about things that bothered him, who held him when he cried and rubbed his back when he was sick, who’d cheered louder than any of the other parents at Sam’s soccer games and never complained when Sam fell asleep on his shoulder when they watched TV, just dropped an arm around him and supported his neck so he wouldn’t feel sore when he woke.
This was his Dean: the one who hummed to him when he cried, and gave him meds when he hurt, and kept touching him gently so Sam knew someone who loved him was there, watching over him.
Except...Sam couldn’t tell how long he’d been there. He didn’t know if he was still eighteen, or twenty-one, or thirty-five. He didn’t know if Dean had been there every day, or part of a few days, or once every couple of weeks.
Or maybe months.
Or maybe years.
He hated the long, whiny sounds he made-the only ones he could make, because his damn tongue wasn’t working right-but when he made them, he meant them: he wanted Dean to come back, to explain all this, to explain the confusion, to wipe his tears and sing, and, while part of himself realized that he should let Dean go on with his life, another part, a selfish part, just wanted him to stay, and stay forever.
Right now, Dean was trying to flip through the channels on the TV. With the reduced drugs, Sam could focus on it for longer, and he was getting more and more bits of language. Not full sentences quite yet, but he understood enough to know that he’d had a bad head injury, and that he wasn’t going anywhere soon, and that he was loaded up with pain killers, and a few tranqs to keep him calm and still.
Dean, he gathered, was swearing as he tried to use the controller to find a sports game of any kind.
“Think-damn-then-stu,” Sam got. Dean stepped a little too close to the door for Sam’s taste, and Sam let out a whine to let him know it.
“-am-switch-ew-itch!” Dean came back closer, suddenly smiling. “-ook!”
Sam couldn’t see the screen. He’d always prided himself on his perfect vision, but it was all a blur to him now. His coordination was a mess too-he could tell he’d failed all the tests they’d tried to give him, and when he’d tried to grab the amulet he’d given Dean, he kept seeing his hands close around it while he felt nothing but shirt.
Sam hadn’t even realized he’d started crying until Dean made a soft noise and started wiping at his face.
“-ame-ight? Shhhh.”
Sam made a few stabs until he finally got the amulet against his palm. His brother smiled down at him.
“-ift-‘ou. -ber?”
I don’t know. I don’t know anything. Dean, fix this. Fix me.
And, like Dean heard him, his brother took his hand, squeezed tight, perched on the edge of the bed, and began to sing.
*
Sammy was gearing up to crawl.
He’d started by rolling onto his belly, flailing a bit, and then getting up on all fours. Dean and his Dad would crouch nearby, smiling and clapping, and calling “come on, Sammy! Come on!” And Sammy would giggle and rock back and forth and move a wobbly arm or leg, and then go flat. Sometimes he’d scoot along, using his feet to push himself: other times, he’d just flail and whine until one of them went to scoop him upright.
“You know how you learned to crawl?” John asks dean one night, while they’re both trying to tempt Sammy toward them.
“No,” Dean says, clapping at Sammy, who giggles and falls flat on his little tummy.
“You were scooting in the upstairs hallway. Your mother was doing laundry and yelled for me to grab you, because you were close to the stairs. I said ‘don’t worry, honey, he can’t crawl.’ And just like that, you got up on all fours and beelined to your death,” John chuckled and shook his head. “I grabbed you just in time. Your mother started screaming, you started crying, and I was sure we’d never get you to do it again.”
Dean suddenly wants to cry. It had never occurred to him that Sammy being able to move on his own might mean that he could get himself hurt. He remembers that terrifying moment he plummeted off the table, and the heat at his back as he ran with the little boy in his arms, and he wants to grab his brother up and shield him from the whole world.
“It’s okay Dean,” John soothes, rubbing his eldest’s head. “It’s good. All it means is we have to watch him. Just like, after that, your mother and I never took our eyes off of you.”
Dean stares hopelessly at his brother. Sam’s eyes meet his. He grins, gets up on all fours, looks straight at his brother, and takes his first real, solid move forward.
*
When John had come home and seen the kitchen, he’d promptly staggered back outside, stumbled off the porch, and vomited at the edge of the yard.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t think.
It took awhile to convince himself that what he was seeing wasn’t as bad as he thought and venture back in.
But it was as bad.
There was the broken bottle of whiskey, the one John had vague memories of snatching up and swinging with all his might at his youngest son’s head. There was blood everywhere, dried a crazy bright red, like a horror movie set. It had sprayed on the counters and walls and all over the floor, and it wasn’t all from the bottle-John knew he’d launched himself at his son, and Sammy had landed a few good hits of his own before John had gone for the Red Label.
Sammy...
In the center of the kitchen, away from the overturned tables and chairs, was a puddle with a distinct mark at the base: the mark of his youngest’s head. And around the blood were bits of footprints: Dean’s, the paramedics-strangers dispatched to save his boy’s life.
And it wasn’t John there, comforting and reassuring his son-it was his big brother.
Dean, his good boy, his loyal boy.
Dean, who’d plotted his escape with his brother as if John didn’t exist at all.
And why shouldn’t he? This is it-this is what you do to your children. This is what you did to the family’s baby. To Mary’s baby.
It wasn’t his fault. He’d been drinking. He hadn’t been thinking like a father. If the boys had just told him when he was sober it would have been different. He shouldn’t have had to find out like this. It wasn’t fair.
He hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t meant to.
“I’m sorry,” he told the bloody pool. “I’m sorry, Sammy. Dean...”
But of course, there was no one there to answer back.
*
One night, John’s cooking dinner and loses track of Sammy.
He’s about six beers in, squinting at the recipe book, slicing Italian bread to go with the baked ziti, and he leaves the oven door open. Dean is bent over his model and Sammy has been banging pots and pans on the kitchen floor. John doesn’t notice when he stops, crawls to investigate the light in the oven, and puts his hand inside the door.
He just hears his boy start screaming.
Dean comes running in, screams “Daddy!” as John seizes the boy and yanks him away. Sammy’s hand is already turning red as John gets it under the cold stream of the sink. The boy cries louder and longer and kicks, like the water burns too.
And that’s when John realizes he’s turned the knob on “hot” instead of “cold.”
He stumbles away, the baby clutched against his chest, the enormity of his failure threatening to eat him alive.
And then Dean’s there, reaching, pulling the little boy into his arms and saying “it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay Sammy.” He’s got a wrapped popsicle out of the freezer and he presses it to his brother’s throbbing palm. Sammy wails a little and Dean says “I know,” and starts to sing “Miss Mary Mack,” which for some reason Sam loves.
The baby hiccups and continues to cry, but quieter now. Dean hugs him tight and looks accusingly at John, suddenly seeming far older than five.
“What happened?”
“He grabbed the stove...”
“You said you’d watch him.”
“I was cooking,” John says lamely. Dean hitches Sam to his shoulder and pats his back. Sammy sniffs and hiccups again.
“You weren’t watching,” Dean says. “You have to watch him!”
“It was just a little burn, Dean. It’ll heal.”
“Mom didn’t.” Dean’s eyes filled and he clutched his brother tighter. Sam let out a little wail, like he suddenly remembers his Mom is gone.
John wishes with all his soul that it was he who burned that night. That his wife was standing here, sober and clean, cooking for their boys.
He can’t do anything right.
Dean turns and carries Sammy out of the room. Sam looks over his big brother’s shoulder, one fist around the popsicle, the other clinging to Dean’s shirt. His eyes are big and brown and full of tears. And even though he’s being carried away from his father, he doesn’t let go and reach back. Not for a second.
Part 5
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