Kid Gloves
Title - Kid Gloves
Summary - Dean woke John up in the middle of the night saying Sam couldn't breathe. By the time John got to the room, Sammy was motionless on the bed and tinted blue.
Rating - PG-13
Part of 'The Dark Horse' series
Chapter Index
"Kid Gloves"
"Chapter Two: A Rose is a Rose"
John stayed up the whole night, and he was grateful for his military training that allowed him to do so without slipping in and out of consciousness for small increments of time. Dean rose early in the morning, about nine o'clock. The kid grunted an acknowledgement at his father before changing positions on the bed. Sammy was still asleep due to the course of drugs pumping through his body.
Jim Murphy arrived later in the morning. He walked in just after eleven dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt with his white collar peeking out. He took in the scene in front of him with sadness. Dean didn't greet the pastor but instead carefully brushed his brother's hair and whispered something nonsensical in the boy's ear. John gave a curt nod before turning his attention back to Sammy.
"How's he doing?"
"I don't know," John's voice, hoarse and gruff, answered honestly. "They're going to try to extubate him today and take some x-rays of his throat to see if there's any damage."
Out of the corner of his eye, John saw the pastor nod his head in understanding. Jim walked towards the small family. Placing a comforting hand on Dean's shoulder, the pastor gave a light squeeze.
"You two need to get some food. I'll stay with Sammy," offered Jim.
"No." John shook his head as his grip on his son's hand tightened. "I'm not leaving him. He'll be scared if he wakes up and finds me gone."
"At least let me take Dean."
Eyes dragging off Sammy, John stared at his oldest. Dean glanced back on his father, a wave of confidence swimming on his childish features. He was positive his father wouldn't force him to leave Sammy's side. Swallowing the lump that was growing in his throat, John nodded weakly before snapping his attention onto the five year old. There was no way in hell that he could stand to watch Dean's heart break at the small gesture.
"Daddy."
It took everything within John not to break down right then and there. Dean hadn't called him the childish name since before Mary died. It was always Dad and never Daddy. One hand still carefully clenching Sammy's hand, John covered his eyes and forehead with his free hand. He couldn't take it.
"Go with Pastor Jim and grab a bite to eat," John ordered weakly.
Dean sat up in the hospital bed while looking forlornly at his baby brother intubated and pale against the stark white sheets. His eyes dragged uneasily off his brother to glare at his father. Tears tickled at the corner of his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Stubbornly, he forcefully jabbed his fists into his eyes and scrubbed the tears away.
John forced everything inside of him not to look at Dean.
Whines, coaxing, sniffs, and huffs sounded before Jim gently led Dean out of the hospital room. It was just John and the ghost of what used to be Sammy. They sat in deafening silence except for the agonizing beeping that seemed to vibrate ten times louder in the room.
There were so many things John wanted to say to the small child who lay in front of him. The words were those of apologies and tales of Mary. All of the things that John never had the balls to say to his sons itched on his tongue. The things he never told them because he didn't want them to think their dad was a pathetic and broken man instead of the strong and brave guy who fought the horrors of the world.
"Sammy," John whispered very much aware that his voice was on the verge of breaking completely, "I'm so sorry."
His hand found its way to Sammy's pale forehead. He brushed the brown hair away from the kid's brow. It was an action that he'd done more in the last twenty-four hours than in the kid's entire five-year existence. There was an overwhelming need to keep his hands on Sammy at all times and not let go. If he let go, Sammy might just stop breathing or worse.
"I- I know this isn't easy." John leaned back in the uncomfortable chair with his hands still in place. "I know I've made some shit mistakes. I just can't… how could I go back? If Mary… this wouldn't have happened to you if I wasn't so… I'm sorry."
Closing his eyes, John tried to push back the tears and emotions that were crashing through him. He had to be strong for Sammy, for Dean.
"I was setting up our next hunt, you know, and my mind was elsewhere. I thought…" John sniffed and felt trails of hot wetness rolling down his cheeks. "Dean had croup when he was a kid. It was exactly the same, so I- I thought you had croup. I was so freakin' wrong, and for that I'm sorry, Sammy."
He could taste salt in the corners of his mouth. Blinking, John tried to push back the next wave of tears that were beginning to overtake him. He wasn't much for crying. Hell, if Dean or anyone else were in the room, John would have been able to hold them back. Except, it was just him and a very sick, unconscious Sammy and John didn't have the fight in him to keep his emotions at bay. Once the emotions started, it was hard to turn them off.
"I've thought about it before, you know, about how you and Dean deserve better. I can't be that guy to you two. I can't go back to a nine-to-five job, raise two kids, live in a white-picket fenced house with a dog… I know too much. I couldn't live with myself if I just disregarded what was really out there." Clearing his throat, John's hand left Sammy's forehead to wipe the tears away. "I'm not that guy. It's not my life. It's not… Mary would kill me if she knew how I was raising you boys. She would be pissed as hell, but I can't… I can't not do this and I can't leave you boys."
Taking in a deep breath, John kept his focus on the tiny boy. It felt so good to spill out everything, to just talk about hunting and Mary openly without worrying if his image to Sam and Dean would change dramatically. It mortified John that he could only talk about all of this to his unconscious five-year-old kid.
"I never wanted this life for you two. I never wanted to be that jackass of a father who cared about anything more than my kids. My old man was an ass who didn't give a crap about me. He'd mope around the house all day wallowing in his glory days of the war. He'd gotten hurt over in Poland. His knee got fucked up, and he became this bum who didn't support his family. We lived off welfare checks and odd jobs that my mom would do." Scoffing bitterly, John lowered his gaze to watch the smooth rise and fall of Sammy's chest. "I hate myself for not being there all the time with you and Dean. I hate that I drop you off at Jim's or Bobby's or Caleb's to go hunting. I hate that I care so much about strangers… I hate that I can't stand the thought of another family going through what we went through. I hate that I care so much about hunting."
Raising Sammy's hand to his lips, John lightly kissed the hand before resting it against his cheek. Sammy's hand was soft and chubby against his rough cheek, which now sported a two-day stubble. Sammy's hand was warm after being held all night. John feared his other hand would be freezing cold.
"Sammy, you know I… love you so damn much. I'm not perfect, but I love ya and I'd do anything to protect you. I just hope that's enough, because I can't be that guy who wins father of the year and makes it to every school function. People count on me to save them. If we don't do it, who will? I just… hope one day you'll understand."
Meanwhile, Dean slouched back in the blue plastic chair with a flimsy fry squished between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes glared daggers at the pastor, his jaw tight, and lips clamped like a vise. Dean was madder than hell.
"You're no good to Sammy starved and tired," Jim tried to reason.
"You don't know anything." Dean's voice was hoarse and emotional. "You just walk in here and expect everyone to bow down to your feet. Sammy, Dad, and I were fine without you. Go back to your stupid church."
Dean was the most stubborn, passionate person Jim ever met in his life - next to John Winchester of course. It seemed like all of the components that made John also made Dean. The kid was convinced that his father and his brother could simply not survive without him. The kid believed that they always had to stick together, that their family tree could never break a branch, again.
"Your dad needs to take care of Sammy," he said slowly, "and he needs you to take care of yourself."
"I've been taking care of me and Sammy since I was four."
Dean was defiant to everyone except John. Dean could be a nice kid who'd clean up after himself, take care of his brother, and crack jokes that would make any adult laugh at the absurd things that came out of a young boy's mouth; but he was plain nasty to people when he thought he was being kept from protecting his family.
"You don't know shit from Shinola," seethed Dean and immediately Jim knew that Bobby Singer was one of the worst influences in the world.
Jim doubted that Dean actually understood the phrase that had rolled off Bobby's tongue so easily over the years. Bobby taught Dean shit, but John had taught Dean bitch. Jim couldn't decide who the worst influence was.
"If you want to help Sammy, then do as you're told."
Threats and commands weren't how Jim Murphy liked to work. With the Winchesters, however, it was often the best policy to follow. Dean, however, really didn't take to commands that weren't barked by his father.
"You're not my uncle or my grandfather and you're sure as hell not my dad. So shut up. You don't tell me what to do."
"Do you understand that your behavior isn't the best thing right now? Do you understand that Sammy's very sick, and the last thing anybody in your family needs is you being a brat?"
Dean scoffed as he threw the flattened fry angrily onto his paper plate.
"We were fine without you," spat Dean. "I know how sick Sammy is. He needs me and so does my dad. I don't think you understand how sick he is."
Leaning forward with his elbows on the table, Jim smiled softly at the young boy in front of him. The most difficult thing in the world was dealing with Dean Winchester when he was mad and hurt.
"Look, Dean, your dad needed to take Sam for some x-rays. Nine year olds are not allowed to go there. So, it's best if you take this time to build your strength back, because your dad is going to need to do the same at one point. When he does, you'll need to be your best in order to watch out for Sammy."
Sighing, Dean popped a fry into his mouth and crunched down. Quickly, the boy ate what was in front of him before rushing back to Sammy's room with Jim at his heels.
Upon reaching the hospital room, both Sam and John were gone. Panic coursed through Dean's veins as he worriedly climbed onto the bed and swung his legs over the side.
Half an hour passed. Dean was becoming restless as he stared at the door with wide eyes. Jim sat next to him on the bed but didn't say anything. He figured that the kid needed someone close, just in case.
When they finally arrive, it was only John who entered, looking more haggard and heartbroken than before. He was pale with a red nose and blotchy cheeks. Without a word, he walked towards the bed and scooped Dean up into his arms. The kid only layed helpless in his father's arms unmoving. There was a silent communication that passed through the two Winchesters, and Jim could only guess what had happened.
"There's a tear in his throat," John mumbled into Dean's dirty blonde hair. "They took him into surgery."
They'd somehow found their way to the surgical waiting room where all three men sat apart from each other. John took a lone chair by himself. He was bent over with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Dean sat on a couch by himself across from his father, watching the older man's shoulders shake and palms rub his eyes. Jim sat in another chair and kept his gaze on either of the Winchesters at all times.
Dean didn't quite remember how much time had passed before Jim grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away from the waiting room. John glanced up briefly with face red and blotchy. His head jerked slightly before burying his face into his hands once more.
Walking obediently and mutely behind the pastor, they entered what looked like a chapel. Dean's head snapped towards Jim in confusion. Sammy was being operated on and Jim wanted to sit in a place of worship?
"Sit down," whispered Jim.
They slid into the last row of wooden benches. Jim reached out and grabbed Dean's hand into his.
"Let's pray for Sammy."
"I don't pray," Dean responded automatically.
"Why not?"
The pastor glanced over at the young boy with concern and curiosity. The answer lingered in the air: John Winchester. Jim knew with every fiber of his being that John had inadvertently passed his beliefs to his children.
"If there was a God, my mom wouldn't be dead," he replied in a soft voice.
"God does what he does for a reason."
"So God had a good reason for murdering my mom?" Dean's voice was thick as tears burned the rims of his eyes. "What a sick bastard."
"God doesn’t give us more than we can handle, Dean," continued Jim. "Perhaps your purpose in life is to help others. Perhaps you were put on this earth to be a guardian angel to those who could not defend themselves. Look at all the good that your father does, that one day you will do."
"I'd rather have my mom than save stupid strangers." Dean sniffed and refused to look at the pastor. "It's not fair."
"I never said it was fair, Dean, or right. What happened to your mother happened. You can't change that. What you can do is make her proud, Dean. You can save people's lives unselfishly. That, my boy, I think, would make your mom beyond proud."
Slowly, Dean turned his tear-stained face towards the pastor. Wiping furiously at his cheeks, he turned towards the tall statue in the front of the room.
"Do you believe in angels, Pastor Jim?" Dean asked quietly.
"In a sense," he responded as his hand found its way to the back of the boy's neck. "Why do you ask?"
"I don't believe in angels. My mom… she did and she said nothing would ever hurt us because we had angels lookin' out for us. Except, they weren't lookin' out for my mom the day she died."
"I believe that there is a balance for everything. Light and dark. Happy and sad. Good and evil. Demons and angels."
"So you do." It wasn't a question but more of a disappointment.
Jim chuckled softly as he squeezed Dean's neck gently. John had told Jim countless amounts of times not to push his faith on his boys. There were times, however, when Jim felt that the boys needed to hear another perspective on religion besides John's blasphemies.
"I do not believe angels have wings and are surrounded in white light, because demons are not red with horns and pitchforks. I believe that angels are humans who are God's warriors. I believe that your father and every other hunter who saves people is an angel sent by God."
"Dad would beat your ass if he heard you call him an angel," Dean joked weakly as the pastor chuckled.
Reaching up, Dean wiped his nose with the fabric of his shirt. He leaned back into the wooden bench. He thought of Sammy being cut open by strangers and then stitched together again. He wondered if Sammy was awake yet.
"Will you pray with me, Dean? For Sammy's sake?"
Slowly, Dean nodded as the pastor grabbed his hand. Their heads bowed, Jim muttered under his breath. Only for Sammy would Dean even think about succumbing to such a thing as prayer. Dean felt helpless and needed to do something to help his brother.
Author's Notes - I hope you enjoyed the latest installment. I'm so sorry it took longer than usual to post the second chapter. A group of fellow writers and myself are in the process of making our very own Supernatural season because of the writer's strike. We support the writers but fear we will lose viewers if Supernatural ends in January and doesn't come back until the fall of 2008. Therefore, we are writing a conclusion to season three. The first episode was written by me and is entitled " Brother's Keeper". Episodes will be posted at
snsie_episodes. All the 'episodes' can be found there. They will premiere every Thursday. Currently, only the premiere is up. This Thursday, you can read a great tale by Kescross who will just blow your socks off.
On another note, thanks to Shannon for editing. I messed up my tenses like mad in this chapter, and she caught them. facepalm I swear whenever I read fanfiction in present tense, I start to write in present tense. Don't forgot to leave a little something sweet.
How is 'A Very Supernatural Christmas' affecting the series? Click here to find out. Beware, spoilers for the series abound as well.
Summary - Dean woke John up in the middle of the night saying Sam couldn't breathe. By the time John got to the room, Sammy was motionless on the bed and tinted blue.
Rating - PG-13
Part of 'The Dark Horse' series
Chapter Index
"Kid Gloves"
"Chapter Two: A Rose is a Rose"
John stayed up the whole night, and he was grateful for his military training that allowed him to do so without slipping in and out of consciousness for small increments of time. Dean rose early in the morning, about nine o'clock. The kid grunted an acknowledgement at his father before changing positions on the bed. Sammy was still asleep due to the course of drugs pumping through his body.
Jim Murphy arrived later in the morning. He walked in just after eleven dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt with his white collar peeking out. He took in the scene in front of him with sadness. Dean didn't greet the pastor but instead carefully brushed his brother's hair and whispered something nonsensical in the boy's ear. John gave a curt nod before turning his attention back to Sammy.
"How's he doing?"
"I don't know," John's voice, hoarse and gruff, answered honestly. "They're going to try to extubate him today and take some x-rays of his throat to see if there's any damage."
Out of the corner of his eye, John saw the pastor nod his head in understanding. Jim walked towards the small family. Placing a comforting hand on Dean's shoulder, the pastor gave a light squeeze.
"You two need to get some food. I'll stay with Sammy," offered Jim.
"No." John shook his head as his grip on his son's hand tightened. "I'm not leaving him. He'll be scared if he wakes up and finds me gone."
"At least let me take Dean."
Eyes dragging off Sammy, John stared at his oldest. Dean glanced back on his father, a wave of confidence swimming on his childish features. He was positive his father wouldn't force him to leave Sammy's side. Swallowing the lump that was growing in his throat, John nodded weakly before snapping his attention onto the five year old. There was no way in hell that he could stand to watch Dean's heart break at the small gesture.
"Daddy."
It took everything within John not to break down right then and there. Dean hadn't called him the childish name since before Mary died. It was always Dad and never Daddy. One hand still carefully clenching Sammy's hand, John covered his eyes and forehead with his free hand. He couldn't take it.
"Go with Pastor Jim and grab a bite to eat," John ordered weakly.
Dean sat up in the hospital bed while looking forlornly at his baby brother intubated and pale against the stark white sheets. His eyes dragged uneasily off his brother to glare at his father. Tears tickled at the corner of his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Stubbornly, he forcefully jabbed his fists into his eyes and scrubbed the tears away.
John forced everything inside of him not to look at Dean.
Whines, coaxing, sniffs, and huffs sounded before Jim gently led Dean out of the hospital room. It was just John and the ghost of what used to be Sammy. They sat in deafening silence except for the agonizing beeping that seemed to vibrate ten times louder in the room.
There were so many things John wanted to say to the small child who lay in front of him. The words were those of apologies and tales of Mary. All of the things that John never had the balls to say to his sons itched on his tongue. The things he never told them because he didn't want them to think their dad was a pathetic and broken man instead of the strong and brave guy who fought the horrors of the world.
"Sammy," John whispered very much aware that his voice was on the verge of breaking completely, "I'm so sorry."
His hand found its way to Sammy's pale forehead. He brushed the brown hair away from the kid's brow. It was an action that he'd done more in the last twenty-four hours than in the kid's entire five-year existence. There was an overwhelming need to keep his hands on Sammy at all times and not let go. If he let go, Sammy might just stop breathing or worse.
"I- I know this isn't easy." John leaned back in the uncomfortable chair with his hands still in place. "I know I've made some shit mistakes. I just can't… how could I go back? If Mary… this wouldn't have happened to you if I wasn't so… I'm sorry."
Closing his eyes, John tried to push back the tears and emotions that were crashing through him. He had to be strong for Sammy, for Dean.
"I was setting up our next hunt, you know, and my mind was elsewhere. I thought…" John sniffed and felt trails of hot wetness rolling down his cheeks. "Dean had croup when he was a kid. It was exactly the same, so I- I thought you had croup. I was so freakin' wrong, and for that I'm sorry, Sammy."
He could taste salt in the corners of his mouth. Blinking, John tried to push back the next wave of tears that were beginning to overtake him. He wasn't much for crying. Hell, if Dean or anyone else were in the room, John would have been able to hold them back. Except, it was just him and a very sick, unconscious Sammy and John didn't have the fight in him to keep his emotions at bay. Once the emotions started, it was hard to turn them off.
"I've thought about it before, you know, about how you and Dean deserve better. I can't be that guy to you two. I can't go back to a nine-to-five job, raise two kids, live in a white-picket fenced house with a dog… I know too much. I couldn't live with myself if I just disregarded what was really out there." Clearing his throat, John's hand left Sammy's forehead to wipe the tears away. "I'm not that guy. It's not my life. It's not… Mary would kill me if she knew how I was raising you boys. She would be pissed as hell, but I can't… I can't not do this and I can't leave you boys."
Taking in a deep breath, John kept his focus on the tiny boy. It felt so good to spill out everything, to just talk about hunting and Mary openly without worrying if his image to Sam and Dean would change dramatically. It mortified John that he could only talk about all of this to his unconscious five-year-old kid.
"I never wanted this life for you two. I never wanted to be that jackass of a father who cared about anything more than my kids. My old man was an ass who didn't give a crap about me. He'd mope around the house all day wallowing in his glory days of the war. He'd gotten hurt over in Poland. His knee got fucked up, and he became this bum who didn't support his family. We lived off welfare checks and odd jobs that my mom would do." Scoffing bitterly, John lowered his gaze to watch the smooth rise and fall of Sammy's chest. "I hate myself for not being there all the time with you and Dean. I hate that I drop you off at Jim's or Bobby's or Caleb's to go hunting. I hate that I care so much about strangers… I hate that I can't stand the thought of another family going through what we went through. I hate that I care so much about hunting."
Raising Sammy's hand to his lips, John lightly kissed the hand before resting it against his cheek. Sammy's hand was soft and chubby against his rough cheek, which now sported a two-day stubble. Sammy's hand was warm after being held all night. John feared his other hand would be freezing cold.
"Sammy, you know I… love you so damn much. I'm not perfect, but I love ya and I'd do anything to protect you. I just hope that's enough, because I can't be that guy who wins father of the year and makes it to every school function. People count on me to save them. If we don't do it, who will? I just… hope one day you'll understand."
Meanwhile, Dean slouched back in the blue plastic chair with a flimsy fry squished between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes glared daggers at the pastor, his jaw tight, and lips clamped like a vise. Dean was madder than hell.
"You're no good to Sammy starved and tired," Jim tried to reason.
"You don't know anything." Dean's voice was hoarse and emotional. "You just walk in here and expect everyone to bow down to your feet. Sammy, Dad, and I were fine without you. Go back to your stupid church."
Dean was the most stubborn, passionate person Jim ever met in his life - next to John Winchester of course. It seemed like all of the components that made John also made Dean. The kid was convinced that his father and his brother could simply not survive without him. The kid believed that they always had to stick together, that their family tree could never break a branch, again.
"Your dad needs to take care of Sammy," he said slowly, "and he needs you to take care of yourself."
"I've been taking care of me and Sammy since I was four."
Dean was defiant to everyone except John. Dean could be a nice kid who'd clean up after himself, take care of his brother, and crack jokes that would make any adult laugh at the absurd things that came out of a young boy's mouth; but he was plain nasty to people when he thought he was being kept from protecting his family.
"You don't know shit from Shinola," seethed Dean and immediately Jim knew that Bobby Singer was one of the worst influences in the world.
Jim doubted that Dean actually understood the phrase that had rolled off Bobby's tongue so easily over the years. Bobby taught Dean shit, but John had taught Dean bitch. Jim couldn't decide who the worst influence was.
"If you want to help Sammy, then do as you're told."
Threats and commands weren't how Jim Murphy liked to work. With the Winchesters, however, it was often the best policy to follow. Dean, however, really didn't take to commands that weren't barked by his father.
"You're not my uncle or my grandfather and you're sure as hell not my dad. So shut up. You don't tell me what to do."
"Do you understand that your behavior isn't the best thing right now? Do you understand that Sammy's very sick, and the last thing anybody in your family needs is you being a brat?"
Dean scoffed as he threw the flattened fry angrily onto his paper plate.
"We were fine without you," spat Dean. "I know how sick Sammy is. He needs me and so does my dad. I don't think you understand how sick he is."
Leaning forward with his elbows on the table, Jim smiled softly at the young boy in front of him. The most difficult thing in the world was dealing with Dean Winchester when he was mad and hurt.
"Look, Dean, your dad needed to take Sam for some x-rays. Nine year olds are not allowed to go there. So, it's best if you take this time to build your strength back, because your dad is going to need to do the same at one point. When he does, you'll need to be your best in order to watch out for Sammy."
Sighing, Dean popped a fry into his mouth and crunched down. Quickly, the boy ate what was in front of him before rushing back to Sammy's room with Jim at his heels.
Upon reaching the hospital room, both Sam and John were gone. Panic coursed through Dean's veins as he worriedly climbed onto the bed and swung his legs over the side.
Half an hour passed. Dean was becoming restless as he stared at the door with wide eyes. Jim sat next to him on the bed but didn't say anything. He figured that the kid needed someone close, just in case.
When they finally arrive, it was only John who entered, looking more haggard and heartbroken than before. He was pale with a red nose and blotchy cheeks. Without a word, he walked towards the bed and scooped Dean up into his arms. The kid only layed helpless in his father's arms unmoving. There was a silent communication that passed through the two Winchesters, and Jim could only guess what had happened.
"There's a tear in his throat," John mumbled into Dean's dirty blonde hair. "They took him into surgery."
They'd somehow found their way to the surgical waiting room where all three men sat apart from each other. John took a lone chair by himself. He was bent over with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Dean sat on a couch by himself across from his father, watching the older man's shoulders shake and palms rub his eyes. Jim sat in another chair and kept his gaze on either of the Winchesters at all times.
Dean didn't quite remember how much time had passed before Jim grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away from the waiting room. John glanced up briefly with face red and blotchy. His head jerked slightly before burying his face into his hands once more.
Walking obediently and mutely behind the pastor, they entered what looked like a chapel. Dean's head snapped towards Jim in confusion. Sammy was being operated on and Jim wanted to sit in a place of worship?
"Sit down," whispered Jim.
They slid into the last row of wooden benches. Jim reached out and grabbed Dean's hand into his.
"Let's pray for Sammy."
"I don't pray," Dean responded automatically.
"Why not?"
The pastor glanced over at the young boy with concern and curiosity. The answer lingered in the air: John Winchester. Jim knew with every fiber of his being that John had inadvertently passed his beliefs to his children.
"If there was a God, my mom wouldn't be dead," he replied in a soft voice.
"God does what he does for a reason."
"So God had a good reason for murdering my mom?" Dean's voice was thick as tears burned the rims of his eyes. "What a sick bastard."
"God doesn’t give us more than we can handle, Dean," continued Jim. "Perhaps your purpose in life is to help others. Perhaps you were put on this earth to be a guardian angel to those who could not defend themselves. Look at all the good that your father does, that one day you will do."
"I'd rather have my mom than save stupid strangers." Dean sniffed and refused to look at the pastor. "It's not fair."
"I never said it was fair, Dean, or right. What happened to your mother happened. You can't change that. What you can do is make her proud, Dean. You can save people's lives unselfishly. That, my boy, I think, would make your mom beyond proud."
Slowly, Dean turned his tear-stained face towards the pastor. Wiping furiously at his cheeks, he turned towards the tall statue in the front of the room.
"Do you believe in angels, Pastor Jim?" Dean asked quietly.
"In a sense," he responded as his hand found its way to the back of the boy's neck. "Why do you ask?"
"I don't believe in angels. My mom… she did and she said nothing would ever hurt us because we had angels lookin' out for us. Except, they weren't lookin' out for my mom the day she died."
"I believe that there is a balance for everything. Light and dark. Happy and sad. Good and evil. Demons and angels."
"So you do." It wasn't a question but more of a disappointment.
Jim chuckled softly as he squeezed Dean's neck gently. John had told Jim countless amounts of times not to push his faith on his boys. There were times, however, when Jim felt that the boys needed to hear another perspective on religion besides John's blasphemies.
"I do not believe angels have wings and are surrounded in white light, because demons are not red with horns and pitchforks. I believe that angels are humans who are God's warriors. I believe that your father and every other hunter who saves people is an angel sent by God."
"Dad would beat your ass if he heard you call him an angel," Dean joked weakly as the pastor chuckled.
Reaching up, Dean wiped his nose with the fabric of his shirt. He leaned back into the wooden bench. He thought of Sammy being cut open by strangers and then stitched together again. He wondered if Sammy was awake yet.
"Will you pray with me, Dean? For Sammy's sake?"
Slowly, Dean nodded as the pastor grabbed his hand. Their heads bowed, Jim muttered under his breath. Only for Sammy would Dean even think about succumbing to such a thing as prayer. Dean felt helpless and needed to do something to help his brother.
Author's Notes - I hope you enjoyed the latest installment. I'm so sorry it took longer than usual to post the second chapter. A group of fellow writers and myself are in the process of making our very own Supernatural season because of the writer's strike. We support the writers but fear we will lose viewers if Supernatural ends in January and doesn't come back until the fall of 2008. Therefore, we are writing a conclusion to season three. The first episode was written by me and is entitled " Brother's Keeper". Episodes will be posted at
snsie_episodes. All the 'episodes' can be found there. They will premiere every Thursday. Currently, only the premiere is up. This Thursday, you can read a great tale by Kescross who will just blow your socks off.
On another note, thanks to Shannon for editing. I messed up my tenses like mad in this chapter, and she caught them. facepalm I swear whenever I read fanfiction in present tense, I start to write in present tense. Don't forgot to leave a little something sweet.
How is 'A Very Supernatural Christmas' affecting the series? Click here to find out. Beware, spoilers for the series abound as well.