SPN Fic: To Everything A Season (Pat 16/?) (Gen, R, FutureFic)

[dodger_winslow]

Just a little Sammy love for the weekend. Probably be the last chapter for a little while ... I've actually got to get something done for my real world projects. I won't let so much time pass though ... no more month long hiatuses. I promise (but, kinda like, Danny, you have to take that with a grain of salt, cause sometimes I lie ... )

Anyways ...

Edited to Add: Okay, damn LJ only let me post one of the two scenes I meant for this chapter, so I might go ahead and post the other one pretty quickly if I can get the scene following it whipped into line without killing myself. No promises, but I'll try.

Title: To Everything A Season (Part 16/?)
Author:
dodger_winslow
Challenge: Firsts Chart: First Memory
Genre: Gen (some het, not graphic), FutureFic
Word Count: 163,000 (total)
Pairings/Characters: John/OFC, Dean/OFC, Sam/OFC (hey, did I mention it was Future Fic?)
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, sexual situations (not graphic)
Spoilers: Oh yeah. Everything S1
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, I'm just stalking them for a while.

Timeline Note: Set seven years after the events of Devil's Trap. John, Dean and Sam all survived the crash to hunt down and destroy the Demon. For Sam, life goes on. For Dean, life stalls. For John, life has no more meaning, and he begins to self destruct.

Summary: A little piece of good advice: Never hunt a wendigo when you're drunk.

Part 16

The quiet tap at the door startled Julie, and she sat up with a jolt that set off the cramp from hell under the floating ribs of her left side. She’d been dozing in her chair, her back twisted to an awkward kink so she could still hold John’s hand just in case there was any part of him aware enough to know she was doing so.

That choice was kicking her in the ass now. Or more accurately, in the side.

"Yeah," she called, trying to rub the charlie horse quiet with three fingers and failing miserably. The baby shifted in her belly. He was uncomfortable, and he’d no doubt start expressing his dissatisfaction with that inconvenience any moment by playing kickball with whatever internal organs his little legs could reach.

God, she was tired of being pregnant. If John hadn’t wanted another child so badly, she would have made it her business to be biologically incapable of conceiving rather than relying on pharmaceutical alternatives that obviously weren’t as effective as they were cracked up to be. But there was a foolish, Pollyanna part of her that thought he’d be better by now, that he’d have found himself in the wreck of his own mind to a degree where having another child wouldn’t be a danger to him, let alone run the risk of destroying him.

What a stupid gamble that turned out to be.

The only reason she’d let John talk her out of something she knew she should do was because she’d indulged that foolish, blindly-hopeful part of her, betraying the pragmatic woman she usually was by buying into the whole dream they could have a normal life one day; and when that day came, she didn’t want to have closed a door he wanted left open so badly he nearly begged her to reconsider something she hadn’t thought he would even particularly care about.

But he did. He cared so much it made his hands shake when he was trying to explain to her how - though he would have been okay with not having children at all - having only one child wasn’t something he felt was right. He said it was unfair to the child they’d already had. More than unfair even, he equated it to failing Sammy, to betraying her.

He pulled out the big guns, using Danny against her when he argued their daughter’s case for a sibling to share her life with; someone to whom she was biologically, as well as emotionally, connected. Someone who would be there for her - family who would be there for her - when they no longer could.

It was one of the few times he talked to her about family, about how strongly he felt about the importance of family. As a matter of course, they avoided the subject because she knew how devastating it was for him; fearing, as he did, he might have family somewhere he was betraying by being alive and happy with someone else. But he talked about it - brought it up, in fact - the night she told him what she’d decided; not telling him she made the choice because it was the best way to protect him from a repeat of what happened the day Sammy was born, but rather saying her age put a second pregnancy in the high-risk bracket, and beyond that, she didn’t relish the idea of wearing support hose and false teeth to her kid’s high school graduation.

He hadn’t chuckled and agreed out-of-hand as she expected, turning her "I’m getting too old for this shit" spiel into some sort of sex game just to prove getting older had its perks in the "practice makes perfect" venue. Instead, he spent the whole night trying to talk her out of it, telling her things he’d never told her about the loneliness of being an only child, and about how much he didn’t want that for Sammy, how much he wanted her to have a brother or sister to be her best friend and to share her life the way Danny shared theirs.

It would have broken his heart if she’d gone through with it anyway, but she would have done it, just to protect him, if not for the foolish part of her that not only felt the same way, but that also tricked her into believing something she should have known better than to believe: that someday, through some miracle of fate or divine intervention or whatever ridiculously implausible turn of events as the universe might have in store for them, John would be able to watch his child born without it destroying him. She knew better than to believe that, but she let herself believe it anyway. She let herself listen to John when he told her sometimes you just had to have a little faith. She let herself listen even though she knew he was talking about one set of risks, and she was talking about another set entirely.

So now here she was, pregnant and uncomfortable, holding the hand of the same man who spoke to her about faith as if his own mind didn’t betray him every time he tried to see himself for who he was, and waiting for his son - the child on whose behalf he’d pleaded so desperately, despairing at the thought of the daughter he loved so much growing up without him in her world - to kick the living crap out of her bladder just because that’s the way John’s son was always going to be: an asskicker, just like his old man.

The door opened and Sam peeked in, smiling at her as he asked, "You up for a little company?"

"Sure, Sam. Come on in."

He slipped into the room, closing the door behind him. His glance flicked over his father like he was checking on a sleeping child; but the expression hiding behind his eyes broke her heart. Everything inside him that had come alive when he first saw John in the café was dying again. She could see it in the pain he wore so deeply under lies of gentle congeniality that, were it not for decades of experience watching Danny grieve the same way, she might not have noticed it at all.

She smiled at John’s son, pleased it was him settling to a seat beside her instead of his brother. Or hers, for that matter. "So how are you doing?" she asked.

"How am I doing? That’s kind of what I came in to ask you."

He said it as if there was no possible reason for her to think he might be hurting the way he didn’t realize she could see him hurting. As if she was the only one to be considered, as if she was the only one who mattered.

"I’m doing okay, all things considered. John’s resting comfortably, which is a relief. His vitals have evened out, and they seem to be more willing to stay where they’re supposed to be than they have been. His blood pressure, in particular. Danny didn’t like how much variation he was seeing. He says the inconsistency is a serious strain on John’s organs, especially in their condition … which I probably shouldn’t be telling you. But hey, I did, so I guess John can just stick around next time you come to visit if he doesn’t want me blabbing all his health secrets, can’t he? But anyway, the blood pressure’s back where its supposed to be now, and has been for several hours."

"Good news," Sam said. "Very good news. But I was asking more about you. And the baby."

Julie just looked at him for a moment, then she shook her head in exasperation.

"What?" Sam asked.

"Did Danny send you in here?"

"No."

"Sam, you don’t lie for shit," she announced.

He chuckled at that, saying, "Well, I know at least two people who agree with you on that; but right now, I’m not lying. Danny didn’t send me. He’s outside with Sarah, and Dean crashed on the couch, so I just thought I’d stick my head in and see how you were doing."

"Danny’s outside with Sarah?" she repeated. That startled her. Frightened her a little. "Sarah’s here?"

"Uh … well, I’m assuming a little. Danny met someone on the driveway, and they took a walk." He hesitated for a beat, then asked carefully, "Why? Is something wrong?"

Her heart was pounding, and she felt nauseous. "No," she said quickly. "No. Nothing’s wrong, I guess. It’s just that …" She tried to laugh, but didn’t quite pull it off. "I don’t know. Danny’s just not much of one for …" She let that thought trail off, too; then, rubbing at her forehead, tried to excuse it by saying, "Sorry. I’m a little tired, I guess."

"Danny’s not much of one for what, Julie?" Sam pressed gently.

He was so insightful it was a little unnerving. She wasn’t used to being read so easily. Other than Danny and John, most people couldn’t - or at least didn’t - see below her well-practiced charade of more-or-less happy and well-adjusted Julie. But from the moment she met him, she felt like Sam saw straight through her to the bones of her very essence.

Of course, right now she wasn’t even finishing her sentences, so perhaps insightful wasn’t the right description so much as not blind as a bat.

She started to lie to him, but changed her mind at the last moment, asking instead, "Did Sarah just come over, or did he call her?"

"I’m not really sure," Sam demurred. He was trying to protect her. Not knowing which answer she wanted, he was making sure he didn’t give her the one she didn’t.

"Don’t do that, Sam. I have enough trouble with Danny treating me like I’m made of eggshells. Don’t you start doing it, too. I’m really very tough. Very, very tough, for a pregnant woman who bursts into tears if you tell her you’re out of chocolate ice cream. So would you please just tell me the truth? Would you answer me like I’m an adult who asked you a question because I actually want to know the answer? The real answer, not whatever you think is easiest for me to hear?"

Sam studied her for a long moment like he was trying to decide whether to just look like he was telling her the truth or to actually tell her the truth, then he said, "I think he might have called her. He said something about checking in at home; and when she drove up, he met her in the driveway like he knew she was coming and had been waiting for her to get there."

Okay, maybe she wasn’t as tough as she thought, because that more than frightened her, it scared the hell out of her.

Sam saw it and responded immediately. He put a hand on her arm, an instinctive gesture of comfort, of support. She didn’t like being touched by strangers, but Sam didn’t feel like a stranger. His hand was a comfort rather than an intrusion … almost as much comfort as if it was Danny’s hand, or John’s.

He waited for her to explain, not pushing but gently expectant in a way she didn’t feel she could ignore. Drawing a deep breath and telling herself to calm the hell down, she said, "Danny only calls Sarah when he’s in trouble. She’s kind of his … I don’t know … his priest/confessor/lifeboat all rolled up into one, I guess. I don’t know if you’ve noticed it or not, but Danny’s not very good at telling the truth. If he’s feeling something, that’s probably the last thing he’d ever let you see."

"I’ve noticed," Sam said.

"Well the only person he’s not like that with is Sarah. Not that he doesn’t lie to her, he does. He lies to her almost as much as he lies to everybody else. But the difference is she reads him like a book, which is probably why they’ve stayed together as long as they have rather than her killing him in his sleep like anybody else would have once they realized everything Danny shows you is a lie, and everything you need to know isn’t anything he’s ever going to tell you."

She frown then and said, "All of which is totally beside the point. What worries me is, if Danny called her, it means he’s scared about something. Really scared. At the very least, he’s way more worried than he’s letting on. Which is why I told you the lying thing. Because that’s who Danny goes to when he wants someone to see the truth: Sarah. He calls her because he knows he can tell her everything is okay, and she’ll see it isn’t and push him until he tells her the truth. Which if he thinks he needs that, means he really needs it; because Danny’s pretty much that whole island the song says no man is. He’s a rock … not only sees himself that way, he actually is. He doesn’t need much of anything from anyone, so when he does, that’s when you know he’s really scared. Really, really scared.

"And Danny being scared scares the hell out of me. Because nothing scares Danny. He thinks he can handle anything; and for the most part, he can. So when something does scare him … it just can’t be good." She looked at John, holding tighter to his hand. "It’s just not good," she said again. "It’s never, ever good when Danny gets scared. Never."

Sam had moved as she rattled on. He was crouched beside her now, his eyes on the same level as hers, his expression gentle with the same kind of compassion she’d seen in John’s eyes the day he had to kill that damn kitten because there was just nothing they could do for it, it was hurt that bad and in that much pain … and God, what a horrible thought to have right now.

"Hey, hey, hey," Sam was saying, holding her hand and squeezing it like he knew she was so scared right at this moment that all she could think about was how easily John killed that kitten and how gentle he was while he was doing it, like he had so much experience putting things out of their misery that he could do it now without them ever knowing it was coming or feeling any fear or any pain or anything at all except …

Relief.

"Julie," Sam was saying. "Julie. Look at me, Julie. Julie." He had her attention. She looked at him, her eyes burning, tears she tried and failed to blink away welling up until a few of them managed to overrun the levees of her self control and trickle down her face in a way that would have mortified her if it was anyone other than Sam watching them fall. "I don’t think it’s John," he said gently but firmly, speaking straight at her, holding her attention with the force of his will to make her hear him and believe him. "I think Danny’s upset about something else. Something I told him earlier. It isn’t John. Danny isn’t scared about John."

Oh for God’s sake, he was calling his father John.

Julie sniffed, wiping her tears away. Here she was, sniffling like an idiot while John’s son folded his seventeen foot tall frame down to something that allowed him to speak to her eye-to-eye while he held her hand and tried to comfort her by referring to his own father by a name that defined John solely in terms of what he meant to her. Solely as John, her husband rather than Dad, his father. Like he had no stake in this at all, like what she just said about Danny and how much Danny being scared should scare the hell out of anyone with half a brain didn’t scare him just as much as it scared her.

"Sorry," she said. "Didn’t mean to get all weepy-eyed on you."

"I think if anyone’s earned the right to shed a few tears, it’s you," he returned.

She reached out impulsively, grabbed his hand again and held on. "Sam …" she started. But then she didn’t have anything to say. The few tears she’d wiped away turned into a whole hell of a lot of them running down her face like she’d sprung a leak all of a sudden.

"It’s all right," Sam said.

He was so careful how he wrapped his arms around her: so gentle of the baby in her belly, so conscious that he didn’t overstep boundaries in her willingness to be touched by someone who wasn’t her brother or her husband. It was criminal how easy he made it to lean on him, to cry on his shoulder. She wasn’t quite sure how he did it, but that’s what he did: put himself where she needed him so she’d lean on him and keep crying rather than shoving a cork in it as she was trying so hard to do.

So she let it out. She cried against his shoulder like someone who’d watched her whole world shatter into a million pieces while he held her and told her everything was going to be okay as if he hadn’t even been scratched by the catastrophic collapse of a man they both loved.

He lied like a champ, rivaling even Danny in how much he sounded like he believed what he was saying; things he said to comfort her, not because there was any truth to them at all. "Danny told me he was confident with where John is right now," he was saying, still holding her because she was still leaning against him, still soothing her with gentle words because she was still crying on his shoulder. "He thinks everything’s going as well as it can be. He said he isn’t as worried as he was earlier, that John’s improved so much since this morning he’s almost optimistic there won’t be any permanent damage."

"You are such a liar," she said, laughing through her tears as she pulled away from him. At the first indication of resistance, he released her, his hands dropping away to let her retreat without interference, to let her re-establish a distance with which she felt comfortable. "He did not say that. Danny’s face would crack in two if he actually tried to tell someone he was optimistic about anything."

Sam smiled at her. "I’m not lying," he lied.

God, he was good. She almost believed him even though she knew he was absolutely full of shit. She sniffed, drew another deep breath and released it. "Thank you," she said, marking herself as done crying. "I have no idea where that came from, but I guess I must have needed a shoulder to cry on because oh, look, I did."

She had to let go of his hand to gesture at the wet of his shirt where her tears had soaked him to the skin. It was only then she realized she was still holding John’s hand, too, and had been the entire time.

The whole time Sam held her, talking to her, lying to her, comforting her, she’d been holding one of John’s hands and one of his.

"I have another one," Sam offered, shifting a little so his dry shoulder was closer to her than the wet one. "Space for rent, if you’re interested."

"I’m glad you’re here," she informed him, speaking about much more than just this moment in time. "And I’m so glad you had some time with John before all this happened."

A flicker of pain skated his expression. "I wish I’d had more." Almost as soon as he said it, he adjusted the truth of the sentiment by turning it back to his positivist agenda. "But we’ll have plenty of time later, once he gets back on his feet. And with any luck, he’ll remember me then; which, now that I think about it, could be either a good thing or a bad thing."

He said it as a joke, but there was an underpinning of bleakness to the sentiment that clarified it as something else, something more. She reached out, touched his face. "That would be a good thing, Sam."

The pain in his eyes became more tangible, harder to hide. "My dad and I didn’t have the easiest relationship. He and Dean are much more alike."

She smiled, brushed his hair back from his face. "You don’t even see it, do you?"

"See what?"

"How much like him you are."

Sam looked down, looked away. "I’m a lot of things," he said finally, "but like my dad isn’t one of them."

"Yes, you are. You’re just like him in so many ways. And very much like Danny in others." She laughed a little then, embarrassed to realize her hand was still on his face, expressing her concern for him, her affection for him, in a way that only felt awkward when she thought about it. She let her hand drop, covering her own discomfort with a moment that didn’t seem to bother him by saying, "And in case you’re wondering - which I could definitely see how you would be - I consider that a good combination. I’m very fond of both of them, even though they may arguably be the biggest pains in the ass ever born. Both of them."

Sam chuckled. He pushed to his feet, brushing floor debris off his pants as he said, "Well, certainly my dad qualifies for that description. I guess I don’t know Danny well enough yet to be sure how he stacks up in that arena, but just the fact that they’re friends speaks well of his qualifications."

"What does that say about me?" she asked as Sam resumed his seat at her side.

He lifted an eyebrow in inquiry. "Excuse me?"

"My qualifications," she clarified. "The fact that I’m married to him."

"Oh. That." Sam grinned. "I think it says you’re either a masochist, or you have the patience of Job. Maybe a little of both." Then, casually, like it was part of the same thought rather than a different one altogether, he tacked on, "You should probably get some rest, shouldn’t you? You must be getting tired."

"No. I’m fine. I want to be here with John. I know Danny’s going to keep him sedated at least through the night, but I still want to be here. I think maybe he can hear me even though he’s not conscious. When we first started dating, he told me things from his time in the hospital I only said to him when he was in a coma; so I have to consider that proof he’s a good listener if you can just shut him up long enough to get a word in edgewise."

Sam laughed at that.

"What?"

He shook his head in wonderment, saying, "I guess I just never really pictured Dad that way."

"What way?"

"Talkative."

"Oh you can hardly shut him up sometimes," she assured him. "Especially when he’s teasing someone who doesn’t realize they’re being teased."

"He seems very happy with you."

"I think he is."

"He is. I’ve never seen him this way: the way he was last night, and in the café. Watching him smile like that. Laugh. Flirt." The pain skated through Sam’s expression again. He couldn’t keep it confined to the deep waters and hidden undercurrents this time, so he looked away, rubbing at one eyebrow with the heel of his hand like he had a bit of a headache there rather than a moment of emotion so intense it wouldn’t play his games to an acceptable degree of charade. "That was a gift for me," he said in a quiet voice. "Something I know Dean’s seen before, but I hadn’t." His hand dropped, and he smiled at her again. It was forced this time, something he looked like he had to work at to pass off as even that. "It means a lot to know he’s been happy these last years. To know he finally found something - someone - who could give him a little peace again."

"Don’t give up on you father, Sam. He’s a fighter."

"I’m not giving up on him."

She couldn’t tell whether he was lying or not this time. He looked sincere, but there was something to his eyes, a darkness that reminded her of Danny when Danny was telling her what he thought she wanted to hear rather than what he actually thought.

"Do you want to sit with him for a while?" she asked suddenly.

He looked quickly at his dad, then back to her. "Would you mind?"

"No, Sam. Of course I don’t mind. He’s your father."

"I know you want to be with him."

It was part attempt to be fair and part attempt to seem like he was being fair. She could see the war going on just under his skin. He wanted so much to jump on that offer, but he was trying just as hard not to push her aside in his hurry to take her up on it. He was trying not to think of only himself here. He was trying to be fair, trying to be thoughtful, trying not to be selfish … as if he was even capable of such a thing.

He was trying so hard to do all those things he forgot for a moment that the whole reason he came in was to reverse Tom Sawyer her into taking a break by putting it to her as if she would be doing him a favor to let him sit with his father while she did what he wanted her to do. What Danny wanted her to do. What everyone wanted her to do even if it was the last thing in the world she wanted to do.

"Yes," she agreed. "I do. Every second of every minute of every hour. But I can share. Ask Danny. I can be very good at sharing, as long as it’s not chocolate."

Sam smiled. "That isn’t exactly what he’s said about you … except the warning about getting between you and chocolate. Sounds like you’re in step on that."

Julie reached out and patted his arm. "Danny lies," she said as if it was some enormous revelation. "But the chocolate thing is true. I am totally Microsoft when it comes to chocolate. Mine. All mine." She braced herself to lie to him then, to tell him what he needed to hear for his own sake even if he did think it was only what he wanted to hear for her sake. "But I am very tired. I’d like to take a shower; maybe lie down for a couple of hours. I’d feel better if you’d sit with him while I’m gone. Just in case."

"I’d like that," Sam agreed.

"I think John would, too. Give you two a chance to talk where he won’t do all the talking. He’s remembered so many things I told him before we ever really met. Things I only said to him when he was in a coma, or while he was drifting in and out of consciousness after Danny Besty-Rossed him back together again. Things I probably wouldn’t have said if I’d realized he could not only hear me, but he’d remember them later and use it against me."

"Like what?" Sam asked curiously.

Julie felt herself blush a little. "Well, the one that springs immediately to mind was something along the lines of this town having a tragically limited gene pool to fish from, so it would be a damn shame if the - I can’t believe I’m telling you this - the finest fish in this neck of the ocean got eaten by a grizzly before I got a chance to … okay, never mind, I’m not going to tell you what I actually said. But I will say he used it against me later, and I don’t think he came up with the idea that he was one fine fish all on his own."

Sam was laughing quietly, his eyes having lost their pain, the quiet timber of his amusement so rich it made her smile, too, even though her face was hot enough now she knew she had to be at least tomato red, if not redder.

"I can’t believe I told you that," she said again. "Talk about inappropriate things to tell your husband’s son."

"You know what he told me about you?" Sam asked.

"Oh one shudders to think," she said. "While most of us strive to avoid inappropriate, John tries to define himself by that yardstick whenever he can. Especially if he thinks it’s funny. Did I ever tell you he taught our daughter to spit like a camel? For her pre-school Christmas pageant, no less."

Sam was laughing again, his expression making it clear he found the idea of that as funny as his father had. And as the rest of the town had. And as she had, too, although it was much more fun for John if she played it like she was outraged by her husband’s antics instead of thinking they were perfect, self-contained illustrations of exactly why she married him.

"I would love to hear that whole story some time," Sam said.

"And I would love to tell it to you," she agreed. "But right now, tell me what he said about me. Because if me comparing him to a fine fish brought it to mind, I’m pretty sure I want to hear it, just to disavow it if for no other reason."

"He told me you had a nice back porch," Sam said, grinning. "And the view of that porch was one of the main reasons he settled here."

"What did I tell you? Mr. Inappropriate. I’ll bet he told you that within five minute of meeting you, didn’t he?" Sam verified her assumption with a nod. "He loves doing that," she said. "He tells complete strangers he’s got a swing on his back porch that’s the best in the contiguous forty-eight and Alaska, too. Of course he never clarifies what he’s talking about - which is just as well, because I’d kill him if he did - so we have more tourists who leave the Ochoco thinking Oregon must be ‘The Back Porch Swing Capital of the World’ because the guy from that quaint little café is so proud of his porch swing he says he’d do nothing but sit around all day long admiring it if he didn’t have to work for a living."

"What about Hawaii?" Sam asked.

"There you go. Just the fact that you ask that proves my point about how much alike the two of you are. Every time he tells someone that and they don’t ask what about Hawaii - which they very rarely do - he’s just crestfallen. Because if they don’t ask about Hawaii, it deprives him of the opportunity to deliver his big punchline: that it isn’t really fair to compare an Oregon back porch swing up to a Hawaiian one because they teach those girls in Hawaii how to hula from the time they can walk."

Sam slapped one hand over his eyes. " Oh. Oh. He does not say that."

"Yes he does. Trust me, I’ve heard him with my own ears."

"That’s sad. That is so sad I’m embarrassed for him. It is so sad it’s actually kind of funny." He dropped his hand then, adding, "Dean would love it. He’d think that was absolutely hysterical. And so would Garrison. The two of them have a remarkably similar sense of humor on things like that, which probably speaks better of my twelve-year-old than it does my brother, if you think about it."

"Or my husband.," Julie said.

"Or your husband," Sam agreed.

Julie reached out to squeeze Sam’s hand. "Sit with him for a while. Upgrade his joke collection for me if you can. Something witty and urbane would be nice, but as long as it doesn’t revolve around the female anatomy or bodily functions, I’ll take it."

"If you’re sure you wouldn’t mind, I’d really like that," Sam said. "It would be great just to spend a little time with him. And hey, if he’s unconscious, we might even get through the whole conversation without it ending up an argument."

"You always argue the most with the ones who are just like you," Julie said. "Sammy and I get along great because she’s just like her daddy." She rested a hand on her belly, adding, "I expect little Danny and I will fight like cats and dogs."

"Well if that’s true, then maybe I am a lot like him. God knows we have certainly had our enthusiastic conversations over the years. He told me once that sometimes he didn’t even know what we were fighting about. That he thought we were just butting heads to butt heads." Sam was looking at his father now, his eyes distant and clouded with emotion. "And he wasn’t wrong. That’s just the way it’s always been. Or at least the way it’s been since I got old enough to want to think for myself instead of following his orders without question the way Dean does. Or did."

He laughed quietly, bitterly. "You must think that’s terrible. He’s lying here like this, and I’m dogging him for things that happened twenty years ago." Sam reached up with his hand again, putting his thumb on one temple and two fingers on the other, then squeezing like the pressure of his grip had the power to clamp off pain, or bad memories, or both. "I don’t mean to do that," he said quietly. "Sometimes it just comes out."

"Sounds like maybe you need to talk about it," Julie observed gently.

"No. Not really. I think it’s just part of why we always butted heads. Because I can’t let things go. And neither can he. So we’re a lot alike in that way, too, I guess. I just can’t seem to let things go the way I should. Dean can. You piss him off, and he’ll knock you upside the head with a baseball bat; but once he does, he’s over it. Done. Finito.

"But not me. And not Dad. Two peas in a pod like that, and it’s gotten both of us damned near killed more than once. And Dean’s usually the one who takes the brunt of it, because he’s always either standing between Dad and me when the punches fly or throwing himself in front of the incoming when one or the other of us can’t let something go to the end of it turning around and trying to take us out."

Julie kept quiet, letting him talk, glad to be able to listen to him for a change, glad he’d finally dropped his guard enough to tell her something genuine about himself and the kind of weight he carried even if he wasn’t the kind of man to ever let it show.

"Dean’s always been the one who suffers for the shit Dad and I pull," Sam said, talking about Dean in terms of himself this time rather than talking about himself in terms of Dean. "He’s always the one who gets caught in the crossfire, who takes the hit so one of us doesn’t. It’s been that way since we were kids. The first time Dad ever threw a punch at me - and I so totally deserved it, trust me - he hit Dean instead, which pissed me off almost as much as it pissed Dad off.

"But even way before that, it was Dad and me going toe-to-toe over every damned thing that wasn’t nailed down; and Dean always getting in the middle of it; always taking the heat so I didn’t, even though I was the one who lit the fire. He was always playing the peacemaker, always taking Dad’s side with me and my side with Dad; always trying to find some kind of middle ground so we’d quit fighting and go back to being a family. That’s all he ever wanted. Just for Dad and me to quit fighting. All he wanted was for us to be a family, and Dad and I never let him do it. We never let him do it."

Sam fell silent. He’d let his emotions surface as he talked, and he was trying to control them again, trying not to show how deep his scars ran or how much they hurt when he touched them.

"Sounds like you were a family, Sam," Julie said quietly. "All families fight. That’s pretty much the definition of family."

"Yeah," Sam said, his voice tight. "I guess. I just wish I’d done things a little differently. Tried a little harder to get along when I had the chance."

"You still have that chance. John’s strong. And Danny’s stubborn. And brilliant. And stubborn. And did I mention he’s stubborn?"

Sam laughed a little. "It’s no wonder he and Dad get along so well."

"They more than ‘get along.’ Danny’s …" she hesitated, not quite sure how to finish that sentiment. "Danny’s a little selective about who he lets in," she said finally. "Until John, the only person he wasn’t related to who made the cut is the woman he married. And Danny doesn’t lose. Not at anything. He’s almost scary that way. He just … he doesn’t lose. So I have to believe he’s going to save John. I’ve been living and dying by that faith for six years now, so I think I’m going to stick with it. And you should, too; if you can. Blind faith in most people is ill-advised, at best. But blind faith in Danny is as close to putting money on a sure thing as a person ever gets."

"I’m not so good at blind faith," Sam said, giving her a small smile. "That’s more Dean’s department. But I’ll do my best." He looked at his dad again. "I really would like the opportunity to do some long over-due fence mending. Seeing him like this makes me realize how small it was of me to let those fences break down in the first place."

"I love John. I really, really do. But I’m not blind to his failings. I know how good he is at tearing things down when he wants to. I’ve watched him take people apart for no greater sin than just pissing him off on the wrong day. Not physically, mind you - although I suspect he could have done that, too, if he’d wanted to - but verbally. He can be ruthless, and he isn’t afraid to be, even when it isn’t warranted. Having seen that, I have to think the whole breakdown was at least as much his fault as yours, and probably a lot more. Maybe most even, judging by how he acted when he first woke up. The man he was there for a while was so different from the John I know. It was … heartbreaking."

"He didn’t used to be that way. Not when we were younger. The fight with … with his own demons changed him. He was always pretty hard core - or at least, he was after Mom died - but when we were younger, he was very … I don’t know, compassionate, I guess you might say? Or maybe devoted is a better word. But the bottom line is he loved us. He had a unique way of showing it, but we never doubted it. Not for a minute."

"He still loves you, Sam. I could see that last night."

"He and Dean are still very close," Sam said, saying more by who he didn’t include in that statement than by who he did. "Those last few years, they fought a lot. But even with that, they stayed close."

"Sam. Look at me."

He looked at her, smiled like he wasn’t lying his ass off just to seem like he had any intention of hearing whatever she was about to say to him.

"I can tell you think what you had once with John is gone, but it isn’t. I could see it last night. And I’m pretty sure you could feel it. John certainly could. Even without having any idea who you were, he felt it." She studied Sam’s eyes, saw she wasn’t making the progress she wanted to. "How old’s your son again?" she asked, already knowing the answer but wanting him to tell her anyway.

"He’s twelve. Almost."

"Hard age," she said. "That teenage phase for boys is a dilly."

Sam smiled a little. "A dilly, huh?"

"Yes. A dilly. They do some stupid things, trying to figure out how to be their own man."

"Garrison’s pretty good about that," Sam said. "He’s much more like Dean; has an inherent respect for me that I’m not sure how I lucked into, but I did. Obviously Dad’s ‘someday you’re going to have a kid just like you, and I’m going to enjoy the hell out of watching it, Sammy’ curse didn’t work out quite the way he intended it to."

"It’s obvious the two of you are very close."

"Yes. We are. I’ve done everything I could to make sure that’s the relationship I have with him. Dean, of course, is the trump card. He walks in and tosses around a few stories about the Yukon, and Garrison is all about the Uncle Dean for the next six months. Uncle Dean this, Uncle Dean that, Uncle Dean the other thing. It makes Meredith nuts, but I love it. What he has with Dean is special for both of them; and it doesn’t take anything away from what he and I have. It’s just different. Not as obvious maybe, but just as much there. More so even, because as much as he loves Dean, I’m still his father."

When he finished talking, she just looked at him. He waited several beats, then asked, "What?"

"Are you listening to yourself, Sam?"

His expression tightened a little. "Not the same thing," he said.

"Yes it is. He’s still your father."

Sam smiled then, nodding like she’d made her point. "Maybe you’re right. I never thought of it that way."

Oh, he was such a liar it made her want to smack him. The same exact way she wanted to smack Danny most of the time, especially when he was trying to pass his misdirective bullshit off as the truth to her the same way he did to people who didn’t know him well enough to see how much of what he was willing to show the world was nothing more than skin deep, if even that.

"Is there anything Garrison could do to change how much you love him?" she asked instead.

Sam licked his lips, looked away from her, trying to appear like it wasn’t the evasion it very much was. "He’s not the kind of kid I was. And he won’t be the kind of man I am, either."

"Anything, Sam. Anything at all?"

He twisted his neck a little, like he wanted to crack it but didn’t, then returned the focus of his gaze to her. He met her eyes squarely, his expression utterly unreadable as he said, "Garrison and I have a very different relationship than John and I do."

"Than your dad and you do," Julie corrected gently.

"Either way."

"He’s your father; you’re his son. He loves you; you love him. Those are the important elements, Sam. And they don’t change."

"They do if you change them. And I changed them."

"Anything?" she asked again. "Can you think of a single thing he could do to change the way you feel about him?"

She had made her point now. He didn’t entirely believe her, but at least he’d heard her. He’d listened. And that was enough. Or at least, it always was with Danny. If you could get the seed past his defenses, it would plant and grow itself.

"Anyway," she said, letting him off the hook with a smile. "You sit with him for a while. Talk to him. Tell him how you feel, that you’d like to do some fence mending. Maybe he’ll remember it when he wakes up. If he can remember I called him a fine fish, I think he can probably remember just about anything.

She started to stand, and the baby kicked. It startled her into a small jump and re-started the cramping under her ribs so vigorously she had to sit back down rather than finish standing up.

Sam’s eyes flashed with concern. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I’m fine. Little Danny’s just playing soccer with my bladder." The baby kicked again. "Here, give me your hand." She took Sam’s hand, placed it on her belly. Danny played along, kicking him right in the palm within three seconds of the time his hand settled.

Sam laughed. "Pretty good kick there for a little guy," he said.

"John says he’s going to be an asskicker, just like his old man."

Sam nodded. "Sounds like Dad."

Julie let go of his hand, and he removed it from her belly. "Thank you," he said, inclining his head slightly to indicate where his hand had been resting.

She laughed a little self consciously. "I don’t usually do that," she admitted. "It’s kind of a joke around here. Pisses me off that people think, just because you’re pregnant, it gives them the right to reach out and lay hands on you without at least asking first, although it’s presumptuous as hell to even ask that of a total stranger. John calls it The Petting Zoo Syndrome. If I recall correctly, he slept on the couch the night he came up with that name; but it’s an accurate one, albeit something I took as him equating me to a small pony at the time, which I’m not sure he actually meant, but knowing John, he might have."

Sam chuckled. "Meredith never minded people being overly familiar," he said. "In fact, I think she enjoyed the attention. But some guy in Wal-Mart put his hands on Mary the other day without her permission, and she decked him. I mean flat-out laid him on the floor. He threatened to sue, so I put some legaleze mumbo-jumbo in his mailbox that scared the shit out of him and he backed off; but I think that may be the first time Dean ever had to admit my law degree was worth the paper it’s printed on."

"What kind of legaleze?" Julie asked.

Sam’s grin widened. "Sexual Harassment on Mary’s behalf and Inappropriate Touching of a Minor Child on the baby’s. Mary swears the guy’s hand was right on the baby’s ass. I doubt it was, but there isn’t a jury in the land savvy enough to see what an awesome liar Mary is. She just doesn’t look the part, especially when she’s trying not to. They’d believe her in a heartbeat, and probably award damages for mental anguish to boot as long as Dean didn’t give her up by snickering in the back of the courtroom."

Julie laughed, delighted. "Could you have made that stick?"

"Hell no, but he didn’t know that. He even sent Mary a hand-written apology. Dean tacked it to the refrigerator just so when the baby’s born, he can show her what a rockin’ hardcase her mama is. He’s very proud that his pregnant wife decked some guy. I know that doesn’t sound like something to be proud of, but you’d have to know Dean better I guess to get how much that tickled him."

"I think I’d really like Mary," Julie said.

"You’d like Meredith, too. She just takes a little longer to warm up to."

Julie nodded. "A little bit like you and Dean."

Sam blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Dean takes a little longer to warm up to," she clarified. Then at the outright startle in Sam’s expression, she added, "But I’m coming around to him. He was almost charming earlier today. For a minute there, I saw some of John’s little boy lost under that jackass machismo he wears like cheap cologne."

Sam laughed. It wasn’t his normal, gentle, unassuming laugh; but rather a full-bellied guffaw the like of which a small child might offer in response to the funniest thing he’d ever heard in his whole life.

"What?" she asked, intrigued.

"Nothing." Sam rubbed at his face with one hand, still laughing. "I’ve just never had anyone say something like that to me before: That Dean takes some getting used to, and I don’t. Dean’s pretty much a universal sell, especially when it comes to women."

"Hmmm. Well, I guess I don’t see that," she said.

"Oh, trust me. He is. In the final tally - which you can make now, because his tour is most definitely over: he hasn’t looked at another woman twice since he met Mary - he may have dated more women than Wilt Chamberlain."

"I don’t think Wilt was actually dating all those women," Julie pointed out dryly.

"Yeah, well …" Sam let the fact that he didn’t finish the statement finish it for him. "And comparing him to Meredith? That’s priceless." Sam laughed again, his whole face lighting into the expression. "That’s going to amuse me for days," he said. "Years, even."

Julie was chuckling, too, now; pleased to see him smile in a way that ran deeper than any expression she’d yet seen him share. For the thousandth time and in the thousandth way since she met him, she was struck by how much he was like Danny in that: so guarded with what he was willing to show about what he was really feeling. Making him laugh - truly laugh - seemed like a worthwhile accomplishment. "Well I’m glad I could amuse you, Sam," she said.

"Oh, I’m amused. I am very amused. But I’ve got to ask: When did you spend any time with Dean to get the idea he wears jackass machismo like cheap cologne? I mean, other than five minutes on the street, have you actually talked to him?"

Julie blinked, taken aback by the question. "Of course I talked to him. He pulled the daybed in here, and Danny played one of his bullshit games, running off and sticking us in here together for a good ten, fifteen minutes … I’m assuming because he thought I’d like Dean better if I talked to him for a while."

"And?" Sam prompted.

"And … he wasn’t entirely wrong. I might have been being a little unfair to Dean. He wasn’t quite the selfish jackass I expected him to be."

"What made you expect that?"

Julie frowned at him. "I don’t know … first impression, I guess."

"From out in the street?" Sam asked, surprised.

"No. From …" She had to think about it now, not sure exactly where she’d formed her initial opinion of his brother. "… from … your phone conversation with him, I think."

"You couldn’t even hear his side of the conversation," Sam pointed out.

"But I could hear yours."

"What about what I said made you think Dean was a jackass?"

Julie’s frown deepened. "I don’t know. You just seemed so … solicitous of him, I guess. He sounded like a real prima donna. Like everything was about him, and you didn’t matter at all. I guess it kind of pissed me off."

Sam was just looking at her. His expression was a mixture of so many emotions she couldn’t really make out what he was thinking or feeling. It was almost like he couldn’t process what she’d just said to him. Like he couldn’t make sense out of the idea someone might resent Dean for anything, let alone resent Dean in defense of him.

"If I gave you that impression," Sam said finally, "I’m sorry. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Dean is anything but a prima donna. Dad means everything to him. He’s spent his whole life taking care of Dad and me. And when Dad crawled into the bottle, he gave up everything to be there for him. He wouldn’t even let himself date anyone seriously because every time he tried, Dad would do whatever it took to get in the way of it, so he always ended up losing the girl. Every woman he ever cared about eventually came to a point in their relationship where she’d tell Dean he had to make a choice between his dad and her, and Dean doesn’t choose anybody over Dad. Not anybody. And certainly not himself.

"That’s a big part of what drove Dad and I so far apart. The more he drank, the more he hurt Dean; and Dean wouldn’t stand up for himself. No matter how bad Dad got, he just kept taking it. And when I’d ride him about it, he and I would fight. He wouldn’t listen to anything I had to say about getting a life for himself, about finding someone or something that made him happy. It was always about Dad. And any time I told him he had to start looking out for himself, he’d just tell me I didn’t know what I was talking about; that I didn’t understand what Dad was going through, or how much Dad had given up for us, or how much Dad needed him, or what it would do to Dad if he just turned around and walked away like I was telling him he should do.

"He said it would kill Dad if he left, and he couldn’t do that. No matter how bad Dad treated him, no matter how much he wanted something else for himself, he just couldn’t do it.

"That’s why I was afraid to tell him Dad was alive. Because I didn’t want to take the risk Dean would start living that way again, that he’d give up everything he finally had just to be there for Dad again. I didn’t want him to give up Mary because he thought Dad needed him and Mary didn’t. Because Dean needs Mary. He needs Mary like he needs oxygen. And I was afraid he might give that up for Dad.

"That’s what the phone call was about, Julie. It wasn’t Dean being a prima donna. It was me trying to keep Dean from giving up everything to try and save Dad again. Because that’s who Dean is. That’s who Dean has always been."

Sam finished speaking, his expression so raw he looked like he’d been stripped to the bone and left out in the desert to dry. She could see everything he said about Dean sacrificing himself for John in what he was willing to sacrifice for Dean. She understood something now she hadn’t been able to understand at all before: How Sam could possibly love and need his father as much as he obviously did and still only consider what Dean needed or wanted when it came to the choices he was making.

She also understood her conversation with Dean better. His discomfort around her she’d taken as resentment at first, and then petulance, and finally as something that almost smacked of insecurity. How he responded to things she said like he wasn’t sure where he should stand with her; saying something that sounded so much like John, then backpeddling like a censured child if she responded in a way he took as her being offended by what he said.

Blaming himself for John’s collapse, apologizing to her for caring enough about his father to try and go to him when he fell, starting to say "fucking car" but changed it to "freaking car" right in the middle of the word as if profanity might seem disrespectful, or offend her … those things had seemed so contradictory to the man she’d taken him to be, so different from a Dean Sam had to cater to like he was the second coming.

John’s golden child. The one who mattered. The only son who had to be considered when making choices that affected them both.

Watching Sam now, having listened to not only what he said about Dean, but the way he said it; she realized how much what she’d taken to be Dean opinion of himself was actually Sam’s opinion of his brother. And that as unfair as that opinion might be in how much it devalued Sam, it wasn’t something that placed more value on Dean than he deserved, than he’d earned.

It occurred to her, like being slapped in the face, that how she saw Dean was very much how others might easily see her if they looked at her through the filter of Danny’s eyes, through the filter of his inability to see her as anything short of the second coming, the golden child, the one who mattered, the only one who had to be considered when making choices that affected them both.

"I don’t know what to say, Sam," she said finally. "I guess my only defense is that I like you a little to much to think you’re not important."

"Dean doesn’t think that," Sam argued. "I’m not sure how I gave you that impre-"

"It’s okay," she interrupted quickly. "It’s okay. I get it now. I understand what you’re saying. Dean’s not a jackass. He’s a good guy, and I shouldn’t judge him harshly just because you idolize him like he walks on water."

Sam just looked at her for a moment. "I don’t idolize him," he said finally.

She laughed at that. She tried not to, but she couldn’t stop that half snort of laughter that simply wouldn’t accept her will as adequate restraint from expressing itself. "Right. I meant just because you speak highly of him."

His forehead wrinkled into an expression that was almost comical. "I don’t," he insisted. "He’s just always been there for me. And for Dad. Acknowledging that isn’t idolizing him."

"Absolutely, Sam. I totally get what you’re saying." And then she laughed again. She tried not to, but she really, really couldn’t help it.

Sam held his half-confused, half-offended expression for a moment longer, then let it relax slowly into a bemused kind of complacency. "Well as long as you don’t think he’s some kind of narcissistic megalomaniac with no redeeming qualities, I guess that’ll have to do. But just for the record: he is kind of a jackass. In a totally cool way, of course; but still a jackass."

Julie reached out and patted his hand. "I know exactly what you mean," she said, grinning. "I know someone who’s the same way. Two someones, in fact. You sit with your father. I’ll come back in a couple of hours."

The baby had settled now; and the cramping, eased; so she stood.

"Thank you, Julie," Sam said. "For letting me sit with him. And for …" He’d started to say something, but then changed his mind, offering instead, "Dean’s a pretty easy guy to like. He always has been. He’s very gregarious, and people respond to that. They tend to gravitate to him. So much so that sometimes I’m not sure I really show up when I’m standing next to him. And I’m fine with that. In fact, I kind of like it most of the time. But still … its nice to be seen once in a while, if you know what I mean. A nice change of pace every now and then. And one I appreciate, especially coming from someone like you."

She could see in his eyes how much he meant what he was saying. There was no artifice, no charade, no attempt to hide from her exactly what he was feeling. That he’d trust her enough to show her that seemed like a worthwhile accomplishment, too.

"Hey, Sam. I want to tell you something, but you have to promise me it won’t go to your head. Between your brother and your father, there’s already enough ego in the bloodline, and I wouldn’t want to create a monster out of the only apparent introspect in the family."

He grinned. "Okay."

"Not okay. Promise me."

"Okay. I promise I won’t let whatever you’re about to say go to my head."

"If Garrison’s lucky, he’ll turn out to be exactly the kind of man you are," she said.

Her words hit him hard. For a moment, he just looked at her like she’d stolen his voice along with his capacity to process language to some kind of meaningful end. "I don’t know what to say to that," he allowed after several seconds. His voice was quiet, hushed.

"Don’t say anything," she returned. "I just know John can be wonderful at showing what he feels, but a little remiss at actually saying it. I suspect that isn’t a new personality trait, so if it isn’t, and in case he’s never told you as much before, I wanted to make sure you heard it at least once. Out loud. When it matters."

Sam swallowed. Nodded. Tried to smile and failed. "Thank you," he said finally.

She left them together, Sam sitting at his father’s bedside, holding his father’s hand; John sleeping, his features relaxed and calm and content as she pulled the door shut behind her.

To some degree, she knew Sam thought he was playing her, doing her a favor, convincing her to take a break by pretending to need some time alone with his father. Because he didn’t know Danny the way John did yet, he didn’t realize how much practice she had seeing through the charades of men who use misdirection as an identity, so he no doubt had no idea she let him play her because she wanted him exactly where he was: at John’s side, holding John’s hand.

Sam was a smart, insightful man with a kind and generous heart and a unique capacity to see the world around him in a way others couldn’t. But he had blind spots the size of Kentucky in the things he saw about himself.

That he thought his brother was the son most like John was one of them. That he thought his brother was the son who most needed John was another.

Though she knew there was nothing in her husband’s conscious mind that understood it was his son - his youngest son - sitting with him now; she suspected, somewhere deep inside, John recognized the child holding his hand, and it mattered. She hoped somehow, feeling how much that child still needed him would matter, too. She hoped it would call him back to her, call him back to Sam. But most of all, she hoped it would remind John of what waited for him here: how much he had to live for, how many people loved him and needed him and wanted him back.

And she hoped it was enough to matter. Because in the long run, it was all that mattered. Being wanted. Being needed. Being loved.

And John was all those things, if only he’d listen hard enough to hear it.

*